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FAR  TO  SEEK 


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FAR  TO  SEEK 

A  ROMANCE  OF  ENGLAND  AND  INDIA 

BY 
MAUD  DIVER 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  STRONG  HOURS,"  "cAPTAIN  DE8M0KD,  V.C." 
"ULAMANI,"  "dESUONd's  DAUGHTER,"  ETC. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
9\n  nitiec^itie  pre^jtf  CambriDge 


C9PTRIOHT,  1931,  BY  MAUD  DIVBA 
ALL  MGKTS  RBSXRVBD 


T\ 


to  07 


TO  MY  BLUE  BIRD 

BSINGER  OF  HAPPINESS  TO  MYSELF  AND  OTHERS 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  IDYLL  OF 

A  MOTHER  AND  SON 


The  dawn  sleeps  behind  the  shadowy  hills. 

The  stars  hold  their  breath,  counting  the  hours  .  .  . 

There  is  only  your  own  pair  of  wings  and  the  pathless  sky. 

Bird,  oh  my  Bird,  listen  tome  —  do  not  close  your  wings. 

Rabindsanath  Taggre 


2046819 


I  am  athirst  for  far-away  things, 
My  soul  goes  out  in  longing  to  touch  the  skirt  of  the 

dim  distance. . . . 
O  Far-to-Seekl  0  the  keen  call  of  thy  flute  ...  1 

Rabindranath  Tagoee 


His  hidden  meaning  dwells  in  our  endeavours; 
Our  valours  are  our  best  gods. 

-   John  Fletcher 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

As  part  of  my  book  is  set  in  Lahore  during  the  outbreak,  in  April, 
1 9 19, 1  wish  to  state  clearly  that,  while  the  main  events  are  true 
to  fact,  the  characters  concerned,  both  English  and  Indian,  are 
purely  imaginary.  At  the  same  time,  all  opinions  expressed  by 
my  Indian  characters,  on  the  present  outlook,  are  based  on  the 
written  or  spoken  opinions  of  actual  Indians  —  loyal  or  disaf- 
fected, as  the  case  may  be.  There  were  no  serious  British  casual- 
ties at  Lahore;  though  there  were  many  elsewhere.  I  have  im- 
agined one,  locally,  for  the  purposes  of  my  story.  In  all  other 
respects,  I  have  kept  close  to  recorded  facts. 

M.D. 


CONTENTS 

PHASE  I  ' 
The  Glory  and  the  Dream  t 

PHASE  n 
The  Visionary  Gleam  65 

PHASE  m 

PiSGAH  HfIGHTS  137 

PHASE  IV 
Dust  of  the  Actual  287 

'      PHASE  V 
A  Star  in  Darkness  '^  421 


FAR  TO  SEEK 

PHASE  I 
THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM 


FAR  TO  SEEK 

PHASE  I 

THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM 

Chapter  I 

Thou  art  the  sky  and  thou  art  the  nest  as  weU. 
O  thou  beautiful,  there  in  the  nest  it  is  thy  love  thai 
Encloses  the  sotd  with  colours  and  sounds  and  odours. 

Rabikdranath  Tagobe 

By  the  shimmer  of  blue  under  the  beeches  Roy  knew  that  smn- 
mer  —  really  truly  summer!  —  had  come  back  at  last.  And 
summer  meant  picnics  and  strawberries  and  out-of-door  lessons, 
and  the  lovely  hot  smell  of  pine-needles  in  the  pine-wood,  and 
the  lovelier  cool  smell  of  moss  cushions  in  the  beech-wood — home 
of  squirrels  and  birds  and  bluebells;  unfailing  wonderland  of  dis- 
covery and  adventure. 

Roy  was  an  imaginative  creature,  isolated  a  little  by  the  fact 
of  being  three  and  a  half  years  older  than  Christine,  and  'miles 
older'  than  Jerry  and  George,  mere  infants,  for  whom  the  magic 
word  'adventure*  held  no  meaning  at  all. 

Ludcily  there  was  Tara,  from  the  black-and-white  house: 
Tara,  who  shared  his  lessons  and,  in  spite  of  the  drawback  of 
being  a  girl,  had  long  ago  won  her  way  into  his  private  world 
of  knight-errantry  and  romance.  Tara  was  eight  years  and  five 
weeks  old;  quite  a  reasonable  age  in  the  eyes  of  Roy,  whose  full 
name  was  Nevil  Le  Roy  Sinclair  and  who  would  be  nine  in  June. 

With  the  exception  of  grown-ups,  who  didn't  count,  there 
was  no  one  older  than  nine  in  his  immediate  neighbourhood. 
Tara  came  nearest:  but  she  wouldn't  be  nine  till  next  year,  which 
made  all  the  difference,  becaus^  tty  ^q.\  \m\Q  |ie  would  be  ten. 
The  point  was  she  coulc^i^'^  Qa^cl^  hipa  up  ^f  s|ie  tried  ever  so. 


4  FAR  TO  SEEK 

It  was  Tara's  mother,  Lady  Despard,  who  had  the  happy  idea 
of  sharing  lessons  that  would  otherwise  be  rather  a  lonely  affair 
for  both.  But  it  was  Roy's  mother  who  had  the  still  happier 
idea  of  teaching  them  herself.  Tara's  mother  joined  in  now  and 
then;  but  Roy's  mother  —  who  loved  it  beyond  everything  — 
secured  the  Uon's  share.  And  Roy  was  old  enough  by  now  to  be 
proudly  aware  of  his  own  good  fortune.  Most  other  children  of 
his  acquaintance  were  afflicted  with  tiresome  governesses,  who 
wore  ugly  jackets  and  hats,  who  said,  'Don't  drink  with  your 
mouth  full,'  and  'Don't  argue  the  point!'  —  Roy's  favourite 
sin  —  and  always  told  you  to  'Look  in  the  dictionary'  when  you 
found  a  scrumptious  new  word  and  wanted  to  hear  all  about  it. 
The  dictionary,  indeed!  Roy  privately  regarded  it  as  one  of  the 
many  mean  evasions  to  which  grown-ups  were  addicted. 

His  ripe  experience  on  the  subject  was  gleaned  partly  from 
neighbouring  families,  partly  from  infrequent  visits  to  'Aunt 
Jane'  —  whom  he  hated  with  a  deep,  unreasoned  hate  —  and 
'Uncle  George,'  who  had  a  kind,  stupid  face,  but  anyhow  tried 
to  be  funny  and  made  futile  bids  for  favour  with  pen-knives  and 
half-crowns.  Possibly  it  was  these  uncongenial  visits  that  quick- 
ened in  him  very  early  the  consciousness  that  his  own  beautiful 
home  was,  in  some  special  way,  different  from  other  boys'  homes, 
and  his  mother  —  in  a  still  more  special  way  —  different  from 
other  boys'  mothers. .  . . 

And  that  proud,  secret  conviction  was  no  mere  m)i;h  bom  of 
his  young  adoration.  In  all  the  County,  perhaps  in  all  the 
Kingdom,  there  could  be  found  no  mother  in  the  least  like 
Lilamani  Sinclair,  descendant  of  Rajput  chiefs  and  wife  of  an 
English  baronet,  who,  in  the  face  of  formidable  barriers,  had 
dared  to  accept  all  risks  and  follow  the  promptings  of  his  heart. 
One  of  these  days  there  would  dawn  on  Roy  the  knowledge  that 
he  was  the  child  of  a  unique  romance,  of  a  mutual  love  and  cour- 
age that  had  run  the  gantlet  of  prejudices  and  antagonisms,  of 
fightings  without  and  fears  within;  yet,  in  the  end,  had  tri- 
umphed as  they  triumph  who  will  not  admit  defeat.  All  this 
initial  blending  of  ecstasy  and  pain,  of  spiritual  str?  ing  and 
mastery,  had  gone  to  the  maKi|ig  of  Roy,  wjjo  in  the  fulness  of 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM       5 

time  would  realise  —  perhaps  with  pride,  perhaps  with  secret 
trouble  and  misgiving  —  the  high  and  complex  heritage  that  was 
his. 

Meanwhile  he  only  knew  that  he  was  fearfully  happy,  espe- 
cially in  summer-time;  that  his  father  —  who  had  smiling  eyes 
and  loved  messing  with  paints  like  a  boy  —  was  kinder  than 
anyone  else's,  so  long  as  you  didn't  tell  bad  fibs  or  meddle  with 
his  brushes;  that  his  idolised  mother,  in  her  soft  coloured  silks 
and  saris,  her  bangles  and  silver  shoes,  was  the  'very  most 
beautiful'  being  in  the  whole  world.  And  Roy's  response  to  the 
appeal  of  beauty  was  abnormally  quick  and  keen.  It  could 
hardly  be  otherwise  with  the  son  of  these  two.  He  loved,  with 
a  fervour  beyond  his  years,  the  clear  pale  oval  of  his  mother's 
face,  the  coils  of  her  dark  hair,  seen  always  through  a  film  of 
softest  muslin  —  moon-yellow  or  apple-blossom  pink,  or  deep 
dark  blue  like  the  sky  out  of  his  window  at  night  spangled  with 
stars.  He  loved  the  glimmer  of  her  jewels,  the  sheen  and  feel 
of  her  wonderful  Indian  silks,  that  seemed  to  smell  like  the  big 
sandalwood  box  in  the  drawing-room.  And  beyond  everything 
he  loved  her  smile  and  the  touch  of  her  hand  and  her  voice  that 
could  charm  away  all  nightmare  terrors,  all  questionings  and 
rebellions,  of  his  excitable  brain. 

Yet,  m  outward  bearing,  he  was  not  a  sentimental  boy.  The 
Sinclairs  did  not  run  to  sentiment;  and  the  blood  of  two  virile 
races  —  English  and  Rajput  —  was  mingled  in  his  veins.  Al- 
ready his  budding  masculinity  bade  him  keep  the  feelings  of 
'that  other  Roy'  locked  in  the  most  secret  corner  of  his  heart. 
Only  his  mother,  and  sometimes  Tara,  caught  a  glimpse  of  hun 
now  and  then.  Lady  Sinclair  herself  never  guessed  that,  in  the 
vivid  imaginations  of  both  children,  she  herself  was  the  ever- 
varying  mcarnation  of  the  fairy  princesses  and  Rajputni  hero- 
ines of  her  own  tales.  Their  appetite  for  these  was  insatiable; 
and  her  store  of  them  seemed  never-ending:  folk-tales  of  East  and  , 
West;  true  tales  of  crusaders,  of  Arthur  and  his  knights;  of  Raj- 
put Kings  and  Queens,  in  the  far-ofi  days  when  Rajasthdn  —  a 
word  like  a  trumpet  call  —  was  holding  her  desert  cities  against 
hordes  of  mvaders,  and  heroes  scorned  to  die  in  their  beds. 


6  '  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Much  of  it  all  was  frankly  beyond  them;  but  the  colour  and  the 
movement,  the  atmosphere  of  heroism  and  high  endeavour  quick- 
ened imagination  and  fellow-feeling,  and  left  an  impress  on  both 
children  that  would  not  pass  with  the  years. 

To  their  great  good  fortune,  these  tales  and  talks  were  a  part 
of  her  simple,  individual  plan  of  education.  An  even  greater 
good  fortune  —  in  their  eyes  —  was  her  instinctive  response  to 
the  seasons.  She  shared  to  the  full  their  clear  conviction  that 
schoolroom  lessons  and  a  radiant  day  of  summer  were  a  glaring 
misfit;  and  she  trimmed  her  sails  —  or  rather  her  time-table  — 
accordingly. 

"Sentimental  folly  and  thoroughly  demoralising,"  was  the 
verdict  of  Aunt  Jane,  overheard  by  Roy,  who  was  not  supposed 
to  understand.  "They  will  grow  up  without  an  inch  of  moral 
backbone.  And  you  can't  say  I  didn't  warn  you.  Lady  Des- 
pard's  a  crank,  of  course:  but  Nevil  is  a  fool  to  allow  it.  Good- 
ness knows  he  was  bad  enough,  though  he  was  reared  on  the 
good  old  lines.  And  you  are  not  giving  his  son  a  chance.  The 
sooner  the  boy's  packed  off  to  school  the  better.  I  shall  tell 
him  so." 

And  his  mother  had  answered  with  her  dignified,  unruflled 
sweetness  —  that  made  her  so  beautifully  'different'  from  or- 
dinary people,  who  got  red  and  excited  and  made  foolish  faces: 
"He  will  not  agree.  He  shares  my  believing  that  children  are  in 
love  with  life.  It  is  their  first  love.  Pity  to  crush  it  too  soon; 
putting  their  minds  in  tight  boxes  with  no  chink  for  Nature 
to  creep  in.  If  they  shall  first  find  knowledge  by  their  young 
life-love,  afterwards  they  will  perhaps  give  up  their  life-love  to 
gain  it." 

Roy  could  not  follow  all  that,  but  the  music  of  the  words, 
matched  with  the  music  of  his  mother's  voice,  convinced  hun 
that  her  victory  over  horrid,  interfering  Aunt  Jane  was  com- 
plete. And  it  was  comforting  to  knowthat  his  father  agreed  about 
not  putting  their  minds  in  tight  boxes.  For  Aunt  Jane's  drastic 
prescription  alarmed  him.  Of  course  school  would  have  to  come 
some  day;  but  his  was  not  the  temperament  that  hankers  for  it 
at  an  early  age.  As  to  a '  moral  backbone '  —  whatever  sort  of  an 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      7 

aflBiction  that  might  be  —  if  it  meant  growing  up  ugly  and  'dis- 
agreeable,' like  Aunt  Jane  or  the  'Aunt  Jane  cousins,'  he  fer- 
vently hoped  he  would  never  have  one  —  or  Tara  either.  .  .  . 

But  on  this  particular  morning  he  feared  no  manner  of  bogey — 
not  even  school  or  a  moral  backbone  —  because  the  bluebells 
were  alight  under  his  beeches  —  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  them 

—  and  'really  truly'  smnmer  had  come  back  at  last! 

Roy  knew  it  the  moment  he  sprang  out  of  bed  and  stood  bare- 
foot on  the  warm  patch  of  carpet  near  the  window,  stretching 
his  slim,  shapely  body,  instinctively  responsive  to  the  sun's 
caress.  No  less  instinctive  was  his  profound  conviction  that 
nothing  possibly  could  go  wrong  on  a  day  like  this. 

In  the  first  place  it  meant  lessons  under  their  favourite  tree. 
In  the  second,  it  was  history  and  poetry  day;  and  Roy's  delight 
in  both  made  them  hardly  seem  lessons  at  all.  He  thought  it 
very  clever  of  his  mother,  having  them  together.  The  depth  of 
her  wisdom  he  did  not  yet  discern.  She  allowed  them,  within 
reason,  to  choose  their  own  poems:  and  Roy,  exploring  her  book- 
case, had  lighted  on  Shelley's  "Cloud"  —  the  musical  flow  of 
words  the  more  entrancing  because  only  half  understood.  He 
had  straightway  learnt  the  first  three  verses  for  a  'surprise.' 
He  crooned  them  now,  his  head  flung  back  a  little,  his  gaze  in- 
tent on  a  gossamer  film  that  floated  just  above  the  pine-tops 

—  still  as  a  brooding  dove.  .  .  , 

Standing  there,  in  full  sunlight  —  the  modelling  of  his  young 
limbs  veiled  yet  not  hidden  by  his  silk  night-suit,  the  carriage 
of  head  and  shoulders  betraying  innate  pride  of  race — he  looked, 
on  every  count,  no  unworthy  heir  to  the  House  of  Sinclair  and 
its  simple,  honourable  traditions:  one  that  might  conceivably 
live  to  challenge  family  prejudices  and  qualms.  The  thick,  dark 
hair,  rufiled  from  sleep,  was  his  mother's;  and  hers  the  semi- 
opaque,  ivory  tint  of  his  skin.  The  clean-cut  forehead  and  nose, 
the  blue-grey  eyes  with  the  lurking  smile  in  them,  were  Nevil 
Sinclair's  own.  In  him,  at  least,  it  would  seem  that  love  was 
justified  of  her  children. 

But  of  family  features,  as  of  family  qualms,  he  was,  as  yet, 
radiantly  unaware.  Snatching  his  towel,  he  scampered  barefoot 


8  FAR  TO  SEEK 

down  the  passage  to  the  nursery  bathroom,  where  the  tap  was 
already  running. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  dressed  but  hatless  and  still  barefoot, 
he  was  racing  over  the  vast  dew-drenched  lawn,  leaving  a  trail  of 
grey-green  smudges  on  its  silvered  surface,  chanting  the  opening 
lines  of  Shelley's  "Cloud"  to  breakfast-hunting  birds. 


Chapter  II 

Those  first  affections. 

Those  shadowy  recollections. 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day  . . . 

Wordsworth 

The  blue  rug  under  Roy's  beech-tree  was  splashed  with  freckles 
of  sunshine;  freckles  that  were  never  still,  because  a  fussy  little 
wind  kept  swaying  the  topmost  branches,  where  the  youngest 
beech-leaves  flickered,  like  golden-green  butterflies  bewitched 
by  some  malicious  fairy,  so  that  they  could  never  fly  into  the 
sky  till  smnmer  was  over,  and  all  the  leaf  butterflies  in  the  world 
would  be  free  to  scamper  with  the  wind. 

That  was  Roy's  foolish  fancy  as  he  lay,  ventre  d  terre  —  to  the 
obvious  detriment  of  his  moral  backbone  —  chin  cupped  in  the 
hollow  of  his  hands.  Close  beside  him  lay  Prince,  his  beloved 
retriever;  so  close  that  he  could  feel  the  dog's  warm  body  through 
his  silk  shirt.  At  the  foot  of  the  tree,  in  a  nest  of  pale  cushions, 
sat  his  mother,  in  her  apple-blossom  sari  and  a  silk  dress  Hke  the 
lining  of  a  shell.  No  jewels  in  the  morning,  except  the  star  that 
fastened  her  sari  on  one  shoulder  and  a  slender  gold  bangle  — 
never  removed  —  the  wedding  ring  of  her  own  land.  The  boy, 
mutely  adoring,  could,  in  some  dim  way,  feel  the  harmony  of 
those  pale  tones  with  the  olive  skin,  faintly  aglow,  and  the  deli- 
cate arch  of  her  eyebrows  poised  like  outspread  wings  above  the 
brown,  limpid  depths  of  her  eyes.  He  could  not  tell  that  she  was 
still  little  more  than  a  girl;  barely  eight-and-twenty.  For  him  she 
was  ageless:  —  protector  and  playfellow,  essence  of  all  that  was 
most  real,  yet  most  magical,  in  the  home  that  was  his  world. 
Unknown  to  him,  the  Eastern  mother  in  her  was  ev^^ing-, 
already,  the  Eastern  spirit  of  worship  in  her  son. 

Very  close  to  her  nestled  Tara,  a  vivid,  eager  slip  of  a  child, 
with  wild-rose  petals  in  her  cheeks  and  blue  hyacinths  in  her 
eyes  and  sunbeams  tangled  in  her  hair,  that  rippled  to  her  waist 


lo  FAR  TO  SEEK 

in  a  mass  almost  too  abundant  for  the  small  head  and  elfin  face 
it  framed.  In  temperament  she  suggested  a  flame  rather  than  a 
flower,  this  singularly  vital  child.  She  loved  and  she  hated,  she 
played  and  she  quarrelled,  with  an  intensity,  a  singleness  of  aim, 
surprising  and  a  little  disquieting  in  a  creature  not  yet  nine.  She 
was  the  despair  of  nurses  and  had  never  crossed  swords  with  a 
governess,  which  was  a  merciful  escape  —  for  the  governess. 
Juvenile  fiction  and  fairy  tales  she  frankly  scorned.  Legends  of 
Asgard  and  Arthur,  the  virile  tales  of  Rajputana  and  her  war- 
rior chiefs  she  drank  in  as  the  earth  drinks  dew.  Roy  had  a 
secret  weakness  for  a  happy  ending  —  in  his  own  phrase,  *a 
beautiful  marry.'  Tara's  rebel  spirit  rose  to  tragedy  as  a  flame 
leaps  to  the  stars;  and  there  was  no  lack  of  high  tragedy  in  the 
records  of  Chitor  —  queen  of  cities,  thrice  sacked  by  Moslem 
invaders,  deserted,  at  last,  and  left  in  ruins  —  a  sacred  relic  of 
great  days  gone  by. 

This  morning  Rajputana  held  the  field.  Lildmani,  with  a  thrill 
in  her  low  voice,  was  half  reading,  half  telling  the  adventures  of 
Prithvi  Raj  (King  of  the  Earth)  and  his  Amazon  Princess,  Tara 
—  the  Star  of  Bednore:  verily  a  star  among  women  for  beauty, 
and  wisdom  and  courage.  Many  princes  were  rivals  for  her 
hand;  but  none  would  she  call  'lord'  save  the  man  who  restored 
to  her  father  the  kingdom  snatched  from  him  by  an  Afghan 
marauder.  "On  the  faith  of  a  Rajput,  /  will  restore  it,"  said 
Prithvi  Raj.  So,  in  the  faith  of  a  Rajputni,  she  married  him:  — 
and  together,  by  a  daring  device,  they  fulfilled  her  vow. 

Here,  indeed,  was  Roy's  '  beautiful  marry,'  fit  prelude  for  the 
tale  of  that  heroic  pair.  For  in  life — Lilamani  told  them — mar- 
riage is  the  beginning,  not  the  end.    That  is  only  for  fairy  tales. 

And  close  against  her  shoulder,  listening  entranced,  sat  the 
child  Tara,  with  her  wild-flower  face  and  the  flickering  star  in 
her  heart  —  a  creature  born  out  of  time  into  an  unromantic 
world;  hands  clasped  round  her  upraised  knees,  her  wide  eyes 
gazing  past  the  bluebells  and  the  beech-leaves  at  some  fanciful 
inner  vision  of  it  all;  lost  in  it,  as  Roy  was  lost  in  contemplation 
of  his  mother's  face.  .  .  . 

And  this  unorthodox  fashion  of  imbibing  knowledge  in  the 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      n 

very  lap  of  the  Earth  Mother,  was  Lilamani  Sinclair's  impracti- 
cable idea  of  'giving  lessons'!  Shades  of  Aunt  Jane!  Of  gov- 
erness and  copybooks  and  rulers! 

Happily  for  all  three,  Lady  Roscoe  never  desecrated  their 
paradise  in  the  flesh.  She  was  aware  that  her  very  regrettable 
sister-in-law  had  'queer  notions'  and  had  flatly  refused  to  engage 
a  governess  of  high  qualifications  chosen  by  herself;  but  the  half 
was  not  told  her.  It  never  is  told  to  those  who  condemn  on 
principle  what  they  cannot  understand.  At  their  coming  all  the 
little  private  gateways  into  the  delectable  Garden  of  Intimacy 
shut  with  a  gentle,  decisive  click.  So  it  was  with  Jane  Roscoe, 
as  worthy  and  unlikeable  a  woman  as  ever  organised  a  household 
to  perfection  and  alienated  every  member  of  her  family. 

The  trouble  was  that  she  could  not  rest  satisfied  with  this 
achievement.  She  was  aflaicted  with  a  vehement  desire  —  she 
called  it  a  sense  of  duty  —  to  organise  the  homes  of  her  less 
capable  relations.  If  they  resented,  they  were  written  down  as 
ungrateful.  And  Nevil's  ingratitude  had  become  a  byword.  For 
Nevil  Smclair  was  that  unaccountable,  uncomfortable  thing  — 
an  artist;  which  is  to  say  he  was  no  true  Sinclair,  but  the  son  of 
his  mother,  whose  name  he  bore.  No  one,  not  even  Jane,  had  suc- 
ceeded in  organising  him  —  nor  ever  would. 

So  Lildmani  carried  on,  unmolested,  her  miniature  attempt  at 
the  'forest  school'  of  an  earlier  day.  Her  simple  programme  in- 
cluded a  good  deal  more  than  tales  of  heroism  and  adventure. 
This  morning,  there  had  been  rhythmical  exercises,  a  lively  in- 
terlude of  'sums  without  slates,'  and  their  poems — a  great  mo- 
ment for  Roy.  Only  by  a  superhuman  effort  he  had  kept  his 
treasure  locked  inside  him  for  two  whole  days.  And  his  moth- 
er's surprise  was  genuine:  not  the  acted  surprise  of  grown-ups, 
that  was  so  patent  and  so  irritating  and  made  them,  look  so 
silly;  and  the  smile  in  her  eyes  as  she  listened  had  sent  a  warm, 
tingly  feeling  all  through  him,  as  if  the  spring  sunshine  itself 
ran  in  his  veins.  Naturally  he  could  not  express  it  so;  but  he 
felt  it  so.  And  now,  as  he  lay  looking  and  listening,  he  felt  it 
still.  The  wonder  of  her  face  and  the  wonder  of  her  voice,  and 
all  the  many  wonders  that  made  her  so  beautiful,  had  hitherto 


12  FAR  TO  SEEK 

been  as  much  a  part  of  him  as  the  air  he  breathed.  But  this 
morning,  in  some  dim  way,  things  were  different  —  and  he  could 
not  tell  why.  .  .  . 

His  own  puzzled  thoughts  and  her  face  and  her  voice  became 
entangled  with  the  chivalrous  story  of  Prithvi  Raj  holding  court 
in  his  hill  fortress  with  Tara  —  fit  wife  for  a  hero,  since  she 
could  ride  and  fling  a  lance  and  bend  a  bow  with  the  best  of 
them.  When  Roy  caught  him  up,  he  was  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
battle  with  his  uncle,  who  had  broken  out  in  rebellion  against 
the  old  Rana  of  Chitor. 

"All  day  long  they  were  fighting,  and  all  night  long  they  were 
lying  awake  beside  great  watch-fires,  waiting  till  there  came 
dawn  to  fight  again  .  .  ." 

His  mother  was  telling,  not  reading  now.  He  knew  it  at  once 
from  the  change  in  her  tone.  "And  when  evening  came,  what 
did  Prithvi  Raj?  He  was  carelessly  strolling  over  to  the  enemy's 
camp,  carelessly  walking  into  his  uncle's  tent  to  ask  is  he  well,  in 
spite  of  many  wounds.  And  his  imcle,  full  of  surprise,  made 
answer:  'Quite  well,  my  child,  since  I  have  the  pleasure  to  see 
you.'  And  when  he  heard  that  Prithvi  had  come  even  before 
eating  any  dinner,  he  gave  orders  for  food:  and  they  two,  who 
were  all  day  seeking  each  other's  life,  sat  there  together  eating 
from  one  plate. 

" '  In  the  morning  we  will  end  our  battle,  Uncle,'  said  Prithvi 
Raj,  when  time  came  to  go. 

"'Very  well,  child,  come  early,'  said  Surdjmul. 

"So  Prithvi  Raj  came  early  and  put  his  uncle's  whole  army  to 
flight.  But  that  was  not  enough.  His  uncle  must  be  driven  from 
the  kingdom.  So  when  he  heard  that  broken  army  was  hiding  in 
the  depths  of  a  mighty  forest,  there  he  went  with  his  bravest 
horsemen  and  suddenly,  on  a  dark  night,  sprang  into  their  midst. 
Then  there  was  great  shouting  and  fighting;  and  soon  they  came 
together,  uncle  and  nephew,  striking  at  each  other,  yet  never  hat- 
ing, though  they  must  make  battle  because  of  Chitor  and  the 
Kingdom  of  Mewar. 

"To  none  would  Suraj  5deld,  but  only  to  Prithvi,  bravest  of 
the  brave.  So  suddenly  in  a  loud  voice  he  cried, '  Stay  the  fight, 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      13 

nephew.  If  I  am  killed,  no  great  matter.  But  if  you  are  killed, 
what  will  become  of  Chitor?    I  would  bear  shame  for  ever.' 

"By  those  generous  words  he  made  submission  greater  than 
victory.  Uncle  and  nephew  embraced,  heart  to  heart,  and  all 
those  who  had  been  fighting  each  other  sat  down  together  in 
peace,  because  Surajmul,  true  Rajput,  could  not  bring  harm, 
even  in  his  anger,  upon  the  sacred  city  of  Chitor." 

She  paused  —  her  eyes  on  Roy,  who  had  lost  his  own  puzzling 
sensations  in  the  clash  of  the  fight  and  its  chivalrous  climax. 

"Oh,  I  love  it!"  he  said.  "Is  that  all?" 

"No,  there  is  more." 

"Is  it  sad?" 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  —  smiling. 

"Yes,  Roy.  It  is  sad." 

He  wrinkled  his  forehead. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  like  it  to  end  the  nice  way." 

"But  I  am  not  making  tales,  Sonling.  I  am  telling  history." 

Tara's  head  nudged  her  shoulder.  "Go  on  —  please,"  she 
murmured,  resenting  interruptions. 

So  Lilamani  —  still  looking  at  Roy  —  told  how  Prithvi  Raj 
went  on  his  last  quest  to  Mount  Abu,  to  punish  the  chid  who 
had  married  his  sister  and  was  ill-treating  her. 

"In  answer  to  her  cry  he  went;  and,  climbing  her  palace  walls 
in  the  night,  he  gave  sharp  punishment  to  that  undeserving 
prince.  But  when  penance  was  over,  his  noble  nature  was  ready, 
as  before,  to  embrace  and  be  friends.  Only  that  mean  one,  not 
able  to  kill  him  in  battle,  put  poison  in  the  sweets  he  gave  at 
parting  and  Prithvi  ate  them,  thinking  no  harm.  So  when  he 
came  on  the  hill  near  his  palace  the  evil  work  was  done.  Help- 
less he,  the  all-conqueror,  sent  word  to  Tara  that  he  might  see  her 
before  death.  But  even  that  could  not  be.  And  she,  loyal  wife, 
had  only  one  thought  m  her  heart.  'Can  the  blossom  live  when 
the  tree  is  cut  down? '  Calm,  without  tears,  she  bade  his  weeping 
warriors  build  up  the  funeral  pyre,  putting  the  torch  with  lier 
own  hand.  Then  before  them  all,  she  clunbed  on  that  couch  of 
fire  and  went  through  the  leaping,  scorching  flames  to  meet  her 
lord—" 


14  FAR  TO  SEEK 

The  low,  clear  voice  fell  silent  —  and  the  silence  stayed.  The 
thrill  of  a  tragedy  they  could  hardly  grasp  laid  a  spell  upon  the 
children.  It  made  Roy  feel  as  he  did  in  church,  when  the  deepest 
notes  of  the  organ  quivered  through  him;  and  it  brought  a  lump 
in  his  throat,  which  must  be  manfully  swallowed  down  because 
of  being  a  boy  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  the  spell  was  broken  by  the  voice  of  Roger  the 
footman,  who  had  approached  noiselessly  along  the  mossy  track. 

"  If  you  please,  m'lady,  Sir  Nevil  sent  word  as  Lord  and  Lady 
Roscoe  'ave  arrived  unexpected  and,  if  quite  convenient,  can 
you  come  in?" 

They  all  started  visibly  and  their  dream-world  of  desert  and 
rose-red  mountains  and  battle-fields  and  leaping  flames  shiv- 
ered like  a  soap-bubble  at  the  touch  of  a  careless  hand. 

Lilamani  rose,  gentle  and  dignified.  "Thank  you,  Roger.  Tell 
Sir  Nevil  I  am  coming." 

Roy  suppressed  a  groan.  The  mere  mention  of  Aunt  Jane 
made  one  feel  vaguely  guilty.  To  his  nimble  fancy  it  was  almost 
as  if  her  very  person  had  invaded  their  sanctuary,  in  her  neat, 
hard  coat  and  skirt  and  her  neat,  hard  summer  hat  with  its  one 
fierce  wing  that,  disdaining  the  tenderness  of  curves,  seemed  to 
stab  the  air,  as  her  eyes  so  often  seemed  to  stab  Roy's  hyper- 
sensitive brain. 

"Oh,  dear!"  he  sighed.  "Will  they  stop  for  lunch?" 

"I  expect  so." 

He  wrinkled  his  nose  in  a  wicked  grimace. 

"  Bad  boy ! "  said  Lilamani's  lips,  but  her  eyes  said  other  things. 
He  knew,  and  she  knew  that  he  knew  how,  in  her  secret  heart,  she 
shared  his  innate  antagonism.  Was  it  not  of  her  own  bestowing 

—  a  heritage  of  certain  memories  —  ineffaceable,  unforgiveable 

—  during  her  early  days  of  marriage?  But  in  spite  of  that 
mutual  knowledge,  Roy  was  never  allowed  to  speak  disrespect- 
fully of  his  formidable  aunt. 

"You  can  stay  out  and  play  till  half -past  twelve,  not  one  min- 
ute later,"  she  said  —  and  left  them  to  their  own  delectable  de- 
vices. 

Roy  had  been  promoted  to  a  silver  watch  on  his  eighth  birth- 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      15 

day;  so  he  could  be  relied  on;  and  he  still  enjoyed  a  private  sense 
of  importance  when  the  fact  was  recognised. 

Left  alone  they  had  only  to  pick  up  the  threads  of  their  game; 
a  sort  of  interminable  serial  story,  in  which  they  lived  and 
moved  and  had  their  being.  But  first  Tara  —  m  her  own  person 
—  had  a  piece  of  news  to  impart.  Hunching  up  her  knees,  she 
tilted  back  her  head  till  it  touched  the  satin-grey  bole  of  the  tree 
and  all  her  hair  lay  shimmering  against  it  Uke  a  stream  of  pale 
sunshine. 

"  What  do  you  think?  "  she  nodded  at  Roy  with  her  elfin  smile. 
"We've  got  a  Boy-on-a-Visit  and  his  mother,  from  India.  They 
came  last  night.  He's  rather  a  large  boy." 

"Is  he  nme?"  Roy  asked,  standing  up  very  straight  and  slim, 
a  defensive  gleam  in  his  eye. 

"He's  ten  and  a  half.  And  he  looks  bigger'n  that.  He  goes  to 
school.  And  he's  been  quite  a  lot  in  India." 

"Not  my  India." 

"I  don't  know.  He  called  it 'Mballa.  That  letter  I  brought 
from  Mummy  was  asking  if  she  could  bring  them  for  tea." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  him  for  tea.  I  don't  like  your  Boy-on-a- 
Visit.   I'll  tell  Mummy." 

"Oh,  Roy  — you  mustn't."  She  made  reproachful  eyes  at 
him.  "Coz  then  /  couldn't  come.  And  he's  quite  nice  —  only 
rather  lumpy.  Anyhow  —  you  can't  not  like  someb'dy  you've 
never  seen." 

"/  can,  I  often  do."  The  possibility  had  only  just  occurred  to 
hun.  He  saw  it  as  a  distinction  and  made  the  most  of  it.  "  'Course 
if  you're  going  to  make  a  fuss  —  " 

Tara's  eyes  opened  wider  still.  "Oh,  Roy,  you  arc—!  'Tisn't 
me  that's  making  fusses." 

Though  Roy  knew  nothing  as  yet  about  woman  and  the  last 
word,  he  instinctively  took  refuge  in  the  masculine  dignity  that 
spurns  descent  to  the  dusty  arena,  when  it  feels  defeat  in  the  air. 

"Girls  don't  never  fuss  — do  they?"  he  queried  suavely. 
"Let's  get  on  with  the  Game  and  not  bother  about  your  Boy-of- 
Ten." 

"And  a  half,"  Tara  insisted  tactlessly  with  her  sweetest  smile. 


I6  FAR  TO  SEEK 

But  when  Roy  chose  to  be  impassive,  pin-pricks  were  thrown 
away  on  him.  "  Where'd  we  stop?"  he  mused,  ignoring  her  re- 
mark. "Oh  —  I  know.  The  Knight  was  going  forth  to  quest 
the  Elephant  with  Golden  Tusks  for  the  High-Tower  Princess 
who  wanted  them  in  her  crown.  Why  do  Princesses  always  want 
what  the  Knights  can't  find?" 

Tara's  feminine  intuition  leaped  at  a  solution, 

"I  spec  it's  just  to  show  off  they  are  Princesses  and  to  keep  the 
Knights  from  bothering  round.  So  off  he  went  and  the  Princess 
climbed  up  to  her  highest  tower  and  waved  her  lily  hand  — " 

In  the  same  breath  she,  Tara,  sprang  to  her  feet  and  swung 
herself  astride  a  downward-sweeping  branch  just  above  Roy's 
head.  There  she  perched  like  a  slim  blue  flower,  dangling  her 
tan-stockinged  legs  and  shaking  her  hair  at  him  like  golden  rain. 
She  was  in  one  of  her  impish  moods;  reaction,  perhaps  —  though 
she  knew  it  not  —  from  the  high  tragedy  of  that  other  Tara,  her 
namesake,  and  the  great-greatest-possible  grandmother  of  her 
adored  'Aunt  Lila.'  Clutching  her  bough,  she  leaned  down  and 
lightly  ruflled  his  hair. 

He  started  and  looked  reproachful.  "Don't  rumple  me.  I'm 
going." 

"You  needn't,  if  you  don't  want  to,"  she  cooed  caressingly. 
**/'m  going  to  the  tipmost  top  to  see  out  over  the  world.  And 
the  Princess  doesn't  care  a  bean  about  the  Golden  Tusks — truly." 

"  She's  jolly  pleased  of  the  Knight  what  finds  them,"  said  Roy 
with  a  deeper  wisdom  than  he  knew.  "And  you  can't  be  stopped 
off  quests  that  way.  Come  on.  Prince." 

At  a  bend  in  the  mossy  path,  he  looked  back  and  she  waved  her 
*lily  hand.' 

To  be  alone  in  the  deep  of  the  wood  in  bluebell-time  was,  for 
Roy,  a  sensation  by  itself.  In  a  moment,  you  stepped  through 
some  unseen  door  straight  into  fairy-land  —  or  was  it  a  looking- 
glass  world?  For  here  the  sky  lay  all  around  your  feet  in  a  shim- 
mer of  bluebells:  and  high  overhead  were  domes  of  cool  green 
light,  where  the  sun  came  flickering  and  filtering  through  mil- 
lions of  leaves.  Always,  as  far  as  he  could  remember,  the  magical 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      17 

feeling  had  been  there.  But  this  morning  it  came  over  him  in  a 
queer  way.  This  morning  —  though  he  could  not  quite  make  it 
out  —  there  was  the  Roy  that  felt  and  the  Roy  that  knew  he  felt, 
just  as  there  had  suddenly  been  when  he  was  watching  his 
mother's  face.  And  this  magical  world  was  his  kingdom.  In 
some  far-off  time,  it  would  all  be  his  very  own.  That  uplifting 
thought  eclipsed  every  other. 

Lost  in  one  of  his  dreaming  moods,  he  wandered  on  and  on 
with  Prince  at  his  heels.  He  forgot  all  about  Tara  and  his  knight- 
hood and  his  quest;  till  suddenly  —  where  the  trees  fell  apart — 
his  eye  was  arrested  by  twin  shafts  of  simlight  that  struck  down- 
ward through  the  green  gloom. 

He  caught  his  breath  and  stood  still.  "Vve  found  them\  The 
Golden  Tusks!"  he  murmured  ecstatically. 

The  pity  was  he  couldn't  carry  them  back  with  him  as  trophies. 
He  could  only  watch  them  fascinated,  wondering  how  you  could 
explain  what  you  didn't  understand  yourself.  AH  he  knew  was 
that  they  made  him  feel "  dazzled  inside  "  and  he  wanted  to  watch 
them  more. 

It  was  beautiful  out  in  the  open  with  the  sunshine  pouring 
down  and  a  big  lazy  white  cloud  tangled  in  tree-tops.  So  he  flung 
himself  on  the  moss,  hands  under  his  head,  and  lay  there.  Prince 
beside  him,  looking  up,  up  into  the  far  blue,  listening  to  the  swish 
and  rustle  of  the  wind  talking  secrets  to  the  leaves,  and  all  the 
tiny,  mysterious  noises  that  make  up  the  silence  of  a  wood  in 
summer. 

And  again  he  forgot  about  Tara  and  the  Game  and  the  silver 
watch  that  made  him  reliable.  He  simply  lay  there  in  a  trance- 
like stillness,  that  was  not  of  the  West,  absorbing  it  all  with  his 
eyes  and  his  dazzled  brain  and  with  every  sentient  nerve  in  his 
body.  And  again  —  as  when  his  mother  smiled  her  praise  —  the 
spring  sunshine  itself  seemed  to  flow  through  his  veins.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  he  came  alive  and  sat  upright.  Something  was  hap-* 
pening.  The  Golden  Tusks  had  disappeared  and  the  domes  of 
cool  green  light  and  the  far  blue  sky  and  the  lazy  white  cloud. 
Under  the  beeches  it  was  almost  twilight  —  a  creepy  twilight,  as 
if  a  giant  had  blown  out  the  sun.  Was  it  really  evening?  Had  he 


i8  FAR  TO  SEEK 

been  asleep?  Only  his  watch  could  answer  that  and  never  had 
he  loved  it  more  dearly.  No  —  it  was  daytime.  Twenty  past 
twelve  —  and  he  would  be  late  — 

A  long,  rumbling  growl,  that  seemed  to  shudder  through  the 
wood,  so  startled  him  that  it  set  little  hammers  beating  all  over 
his  body.  Then  the  wind  grew  angrier  —  not  whispering  secrets 
now,  but  tearing  at  the  tree- tops  and  lashing  the  branches  this 
way  and  that.  And  every  minute  the  wood  grew  darker,  and  the 
sky  overhead  was  darkest  of  all  —  the  colour  of  spilled  ink.  And 
there  was  Tara  —  his  forgotten  Princess  —  waiting  for  him  in  her 
high  tower  or  perhaps  she  had  given  up  waiting  and  gone  home. 

"Come  on,  Prince,"  he  said,  "we  must  run!" 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  was  vaguely  comforting:  but  the 
moment  he  began  to  run,  he  felt  as  if  someone  —  or  Something 
—  was  running  after  him.  He  knew  there  was  nothing.  He  knew 
it  was  babyish.  But  what  could  you  do  if  your  legs  were  in  a 
fearful  hurry  of  their  own  accord?  Besides  Tara  was  waiting. 
Somehow  Tara  seemed  the  point  of  safety.  He  didn't  believe 
she  was  ever  afraid  — 

All  in  a  m.oment  the  eerie  darkness  quivered  and  broke  into 
startling  light.  Twigs  and  leaves  and  bluebell  spears  and  tiny 
patterns  of  moss  seemed  to  leap  at  him  and  vanish  as  he  ran:  and 
two  minutes  after,  high  above  ihe  agitated  tree-tops,  the  thimder 
spoke.  No  mere  growl  now;  but  crash  on  crash  that  seemed  to  be 
tearing  the  sky  in  two  and  set  the  little  hammers  inside  him  beat- 
ing faster  than  ever. 

He  had  often  watched  storms  from  a  window:  but  to  be  out  in 
the  very  middle  of  one  all  alone  was  an  adventure  of  the  first 
magnitude.  The  grandeur  and  terror  of  it  clutched  at  his  heart 
and  thrilled  along  his  nerves  as  the  thunder  went  rumbling  and 
grumbling  off  to  the  other  end  of  the  world,  leaving  the  wood  so 
quiet  and  still  that  the  little  hammers  inside  seemed  almost  as 
loud  as  the  heavy  plop-plop  of  the  first  big  rain-drops  on  the 
leaves.  .  .  . 

Yet  in  spite  of  secret  tremors,  he  wanted  tremendously  to  hear 
the  thunder  speak  again.  The  childish  feeling  of  pursuit  was  gone. 
His  legs,  that  had  been  in  such  a  fearful  hurry,  came  to  a  sudden 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  19 

standstill;  and  he  discovered,  to  his  immense  surprise,  that  he  was 
back  again  — 

'  There  lay  the  rug  and  the  cushions  under  the  downward-sweep- 
ing branches  with  their  cascades  of  bright  new  leaves.  No  sign  of 
Tara  —  and  the  heavy  drops  came  faster,  though  they  hardly 
amounted  to  a  shower. 

Flinging  down  bow  and  arrows  he  ran  under  the  tree  and 
peered  up  into  a  maze  of  silver  grey  and  young  green.  Still  no 
sign. 

"Tara!"  he  called.  "Are  you  there?" 

"  'Course  I  am."  Her  disembodied  voice  had  a  ring  of  triumph. 
"I'm  at  the  topmost  top.  It's  rather  shaky,  but  scrumshous. 
Come  up  —  quick!" 

Craning  his  neck,  he  could  just  see  one  leg  and  the  edge  of  her 
frock.  Temptation  tugged  at  him;  but  he  could  not  bear  to 
disobey  his  mother  —  not  because  it  was  naughty,  but  because 
it  was  her. 

"I  can't  —  now,"  he  called  back.  "It's  late  and  it's  raming. 
You  must  come  down." 

"I  will  —  if  you  come  up." 

"I  tell  you,  I  can't!" 

"Only  one  little  minute,  Roy.  The  storm's  rolling  away. 
I  can  see  miles  and  miles  —  right  to  Farthest  End." 

Temptation  tugged  harder.  You  couldn't  carry  on  an  argu- 
ment with  one  tan  shoe  and  stocking  and  a  flutter  of  blue  frock, 
and  he  wanted  badly  to  tell  about  the  Golden  Tusks.  Should  he 
go  on  alone  or  should  he  climb  up  and  fetch  her  — ? 

The  answer  to  that  came  from  the  top  of  the  tree.  A  crack,  a 
rustle,  and  a  shriek  from  Tara,  who  seemed  to  be  coming  down 
faster  than  she  cared  about. 

Another  shriek.  "Oh,  Roy!  I'm  stuck!  Do  come!"  . 

Stuck!  She  was  dangling  from  the  end  of  a  jagged  bough  that 
had  caught  in  her  skirt  as  she  fell.  There  she  hung  ignominiously, 
—  his  High-Tower  Princess,  —  her  hair  floating  like  seaweed,  her 
hands  clutching  at  the  nearest  branches,  that  were  too  pliable  for 
support.  If  her  skirt  should  tear,  or  the  bough  should  break  — 

"Keep  stuck!"  he  commanded  superfluously;  and  Uke  a  squir- 


^  FAR  TO  SEEK 

rel  he  sped  up  the  great  beech,  its  every  foothold  as  familiar  to 
him  as  the  ground  he  walked  on. 

But  to  release  her  skirt  and  give  her  a  hand  he  must  trust  him- 
self on  the  jagged  bough,  hoping  it  would  bear  the  double  weight. 
It  looked  rather  a  dead  one  and  its  sharp  end  was  sticking 
through  a  hole  in  Tara's  frock.  He  set  foot  on  it  cautiously  and 
proffered  a  hand. 

"Now  —  catch  hold!"  he  said. 

Agile  as  he,  she  swung  herself  up  somehow  and  clutched  at  him 
desperately  with  both  hands.  The  half-dead  bough,  resenting 
these  gymnastics,  cracked  ominously.  There  was  a  gasp,  a 
scuffle.  Roy  hung  on  valiantly,  dragging  her  nearer  for  a  firmer 
foothold. 

And  suddenly  down  below  Prince  began  to  bark  —  a  deep, 
booming  note  of  welcome. 

* '  Hullo,  Roy ! "  It  was  his  father's  voice.  * '  Are  you  murdering 
Tara  up  there?  Come  out  of  it! " 

Roy,  having  lost  his  footing,  was  in  no  position  to  look  down  — 
or  to  disobey:  and  they  proceeded  to  come  out  of  it,  with  rather 
more  haste  than  dignity. 

Roy,  swinging  from  a  high  branch  for  his  final  jump  —  a  bit  of 
pure  bravado  because  he  felt  nervous  inside  —  discovered,  with 
mingled  terror  and  joy,  that  his  vagrant  foot  had  narrowly 
shaved  Aunt  Jane's  neat,  hard  simimer  hat:  Aunt  Jane,  of  all 
people.  He  almost  wished  he  had  kicked  the  fierce  little  feather 
and  broken  its  back  — 

He  was  on  the  ground  now,  shaking  hands  with  her,  his  sensi- 
tive, clean-cut  face  a  mask  of  mere  politeness:  and  Tara  was 
standing  by  him  —  a  jagged  hole  in  her  blue  frock  and  a  red 
scratch  across  her  cheek  and  her  hair-ribbon  gone  —  looking 
suspiciously  as  if  he  had  been  trying  to  murder  her  instead  of 
doing  her  a  knightly  service. 

She  couldn't  help  it,  of  course.  But  still  —  it  was  a  distinct 
score  for  Aunt  Jane,  who,  as  usual,  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"You  nearly  kicked  my  head  just  now.  A  little  gentleman 
would  apologise." 

He  did  apologise  —  not  with  the  best  grace. 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  21 

"My  turn  next,"  his  father  struck  in.  "What  the  dickens 
were  you  up  to  —  tearing  slices  out  of  my  finest  tree?"  His 
twinkly  eyes  were  ahnost  grave  and  his  voice  was  ahnost  stern. 
("Just  because  of  Aunt  Jane!"  thought  Roy.) 

Aloud  he  said:  "I'm  awfully  sorry,  Daddy.  It  was  only  . . , 
Tara  got  in  a  muddle.  I  had  to  help  her." 

The  twinkle  came  back  to  his  father's  eyes. 

"The  woman  tempted  me!"  was  all  he  said:  and  Roy,  hope- 
lessly mystified,  wondered  how  he  could  possibly  know.  It  was 
very  clever  of  him.  But  Aunt  Jane  seemed  shocked. 

"Nevil,  be  quiet!"  she  cormnanded  in  a  crisp  undertone:  and 
Roy,  simply  hating  her,  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"We've  got  to  hurry.  Daddy.  Mother  said  'not  later  than 
half-past.'  And  it  is  later." 

"  Scoot,  then.  She'll  be  anxious  on  account  of  the  storm." 

But  though  Roy,  grasping  Tara's  hand,  faithfully  hurried 
ahead  because  of  mother,  he  managed  to  keep  just  within  ear- 
shot; and  he  listened  shamelessly  because  of  Aunt  Jane.  You 
couldn't  trust  her.  She  didn't  play  fair.  She  would  bite  you  be- 
hind your  back.  That's  the  kind  of  woman  she  was. 

And  this  is  what  he  heard. 

"Nevil,  it's  disgraceful.  Letting  them  run  wild  like  that;  dam- 
aging the  trees  and  scaring  the  birds. "  She  meant  the  pheasants, 
of  course.  No  other  winged  beings  were  sacred  in  her  eyes. 

"  Sorry,  old  girl.  But  they  appear  to  survive  it."  (The  cool 
good-hmnour  of  his  father's  tone  was  balm  to  Roy's  heart.) 
"And  frankly,  with  us,  if  it's  a  case  of  the  children  or  the  birds, 
the  children  win,  hands  down." 

Aunt  Jane  snorted.  You  could  call  it  nothing  else.  It  was  a 
sound  peculiarly  her  own  and  it  implied  unutterable  things.  Roy 
would  have  gloried  had  he  known  what  a  score  for  his  father  was 
that  deUcately  impUed  identity  with  his  wife. 

But  the  snort  was  no  admission  of  defeat.  ,,,    - 

"  In  my  opinion  —  if  it  counts  for  anything,"  she  persisted, 
"this  harum-scarum  state  of  things  is  quite  as  bad  for  the  chil- 
dren as  for  the  birds.  I  suppose  you  have  a  glimmering  concern 
for  the  boy's  future,  as  heir  to  the  old  place?" 


22  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Nevil  Sinclair  chuckled.  "By  Jove!  That's  quite  a  bright 
idea.  Really,  Jane,  you've  a  positive  flair  for  the  obvious." 

(Roy  hugely  wanted  to  know  what  a  'flair  for  the  obvious* 
might  be.  His  eager  brain  povmced  on  new  words  as  a  dog 
pounces  on  a  bone.) 

"I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  for  you,"  Lady  Roscoe  retorted, 
unabashed.  "The  obvious,  in  this  case  —  though  you  can't  or 
won't  see  it  —  is  that  the  boy  is  thoroughly  spoilt  and  in  Sep- 
tember he  ought  to  go  to  school.  You  couldn't  do  better  than 
Coombe  Friars." 

His  father  said  something  quickly  in  a  low  tone  and  he  couldn't 
catch  Aunt  Jane's  next  remark.  Evidently  he  was  to  hear  no 
more.  What  he  had  heard  was  bad  enough. 

"I  don't  care.   I  jolly  well  won't,"  he  said  between  his  teeth 

—  which  looked  as  if  Aunt  Jane  was  not  quite  wrong  about  the 
spoiling. 

"No,  don't,"  said  Tara,  who  had  also  listened  without  shame. 
And  they  hurried  on  in  earnest. 

"Tara,"  Roy  whispered,  suddenly  recalling  his  quest,  "I 
found  the  Golden  Tusks.  I'll  tell  it  you  after." 

"  Oh,  Roy,  you  are  a  wonder! "  She  gave  his  hand  a  convulsive 
squeeze  and  they  broke  into  a  run. 

The  'bits  of  blue'  had  spread  half  over  the  sky.  The  thunder 
still  grumbled  to  itself  at  intervals  and  a  sharp  Uttle  shower 
whipped  out  of  a  passing  cloud.  Then  the  sun  flashed  through  it 
and  the  shadows  crept  round  the  great  twin  beeches  on  the  lawn 

—  and  the  day  was  as  lovely  as  ever  again. 

And  yet  —  for  Roy,  it  was  not  the  same  loveliness.  Aunt 
Jane's  repeated  threat  of  'school'  brooded  over  his  sensitive 
spirit,  like  the  thundercloud  in  the  wood  that  was  the  colour  of 
spilled  ink.  And  the  Boy-of-Ten  —  a  potential  enemy  —  was 
coming  to  tea  .  .  . 

Yet  this  morning  he  had  felt  so  beautifully  sure  that  nothing 
could  go  wrong  on  a  day  like  this!  It  was  his  first  lesson,  and  not 
by  any  means  his  last,  that  Fate  —  unmoved  by  '  light  of  smiles 
or  tears '  —  is  no  respecter  of  profound  convictions  or  of  beautiful 
days. 


Chapter  III 

Of  Heaven^  what  boon  to  buy  you,  boy,  —  or  gain 

Not  granted?  Only  —  O  on  that  path  you  pace 

Run  all  your  race.  0  brace  sturdier  thai  young  strain. 

G.  M.  Hopkins 

Tara  was  right.  The  Boy-of-Ten  (Roy  persistently  ignored  the 
half)  was  rather  a  large  boy:  also  rather  lumpy.  He  had  little 
eyes  and  freckles,  and  what  Christine  called  a  'turnip  nose.'  He 
wore  a  very  new  school  blazer,  and  real  cricket  trousers,  with  a 
flannel  shirt  and  school  tie  that  gave  Roy's  tussore  shirt  and 
soft  brown  bow  almost  a  girlish  air.  Something  in  his  manner 
and  the  way  he  aired  his  school  slang  made  Roy  —  who  never 
shone  with  strangers  —  feel  'miles  younger,'  which  did  not  help 
to  put  him  at  ease. 

His  name  was  Joe  Bradley.  He  had  been  in  India  till  he  was 
nearly  eight;  and  he  talked  about  India,  as  he  talked  about 
school,  in  a  rather  important  voice,  as  befitted  the  only  person 
present  who  knew  anything  of  either. 

Roy  was  quite  convinced  he  knew  nothing  at  all  about  Rajpu- 
tana  or  Chitor  or  Prithvi  Raj  or  the  sacred  peacocks  of  Taipur. 
But  somehow  he  could  not  make  himself  talk  about  these  things 
simply  for  'show  off,'  because  a  strange  boy,  with  bad  manners, 
was  putting  on  airs. 

Besides,  he  never  much  wanted  to  talk  when  he  was  eating, 
though  he  could  not  have  explained  why.  So  he  devoted  his  at- 
tention chiefly  to  a  plate  of  chocolate  cakes,  leaving  the  Boy-of- 
Ten  conversationally  in  command  of  the  field. 

He  was  full  of  a  recent  cricket  match  and  his  talk  bristled  with 
such  imknown  phrases  as  '  square  leg,'  *  cover  pomt,'  and  '  caught 
out.'  But,  for  some  reason  —  pure  perversity,  perhaps  —  they 
stirred  in  Roy  no  flicker  of  curiosity,  like  his  father's  'flair  for 
the  obvious.'  He  didn't  know  what  they  meant  —  and  he  didn't 
care,  which  was  not  the  least  like  Roy.   Tara,  who  owned  big 


24  FAR  TO  SEEK 

brothers,  seemed  to  know  all  about  it,  or  looked  as  if  she  did;  and 
to  show  you  didn't  understand  what  a  girl  understood,  would  be 
the  last  indignity. 

When  the  cricket  show-off  was  finished,  Joe  talked  India  and 
ragged  Tara,  in  a  big-brotherly  way,  and  ignored  Christine,  as  if 
five  and  a  half  simply  didn't  count.  That  roused  Roy;  and  by 
way  of  tacit  rebuke,  he  bestowed  such  marked  attention  on  his 
small  sister  that  Christine  (who  adored  him,  and  was  feeling 
miserably  shy)  sparkled  like  a  dewdrop  when  the  sun  flashes 
out. 

She  was  a  tiny  creature,  exquisitely  proportioned;  fair,  like 
her  father,  yet  in  essence  a  replica  of  her  mother,  with  the  same 
wing-like  brows  and  dark,  limpid  eyes.  Dimly  jealous  of  Tara, 
she  was  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  relished  the  presence  of  the 
intruder  and  wished  strange  boys  oftener  came  to  tea. 

Millicent,  the  nursery-maid,  presided.  She  was  tall  and  smil- 
ing and  obviously  a  lady.  She  watched  and  listened  and  said 
little  during  the  meal. 

Once,  in  the  course  of  it,  Lildmani  came  in  and  hovered  round 
them,  filling  Roy's  tea-cup,  spreading  Christine's  honey  — 
extra  thick.  Her  Eastern  birthright  of  service,  her  joy  m  waiting 
on  those  she  loved,  had  survived  ten  years  of  English  marriage, 
and  would  survive  ten  more.  It  was  as  much  an  essential  part 
of  her  as  the  rhythm  of  her  pulses  and  the  blood  in  her  veins. 

She  was  no  longer  the  apple-blossom  vision  of  the  morning. 
She  wore  her  mother-o'-pearl  sari  with  its  narrow  gold  border. 
Her  dress,  that  was  the  colour  of  a  dove's  wing,  shimmered 
changefully  as  she  moved,  and  her  aquamarine  pendant  gleamed 
like  imprisoned  drops  of  sea  water  on  its  silver  chdn. 

Roy  loved  her  in  the  mother-o'-pearl  mood  best  of  all;  and  he 
saw,  with  a  throb  of  pride,  how  the  important  Boy-from-India 
seemed  too  absorbed  in  watching  her  even  to  show  off.  She  did 
not  stay  many  minutes  and  she  said  very  little.  She  was  still, 
by  preference,  quiet  during  a  meal,  and  it  gave  her  a  secret  thrill 
t)f  pleasure  to  see  the  habit  of  her  own  race  reappearing  as  an  in- 
stinct in  Roy.  So,  with  merely  a  word  or  two,  she  just  smiled  at 
them  and  gave  them  things  and  patted  their  heads. 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      25 

And  when  she  was  gone,  Roy  felt  better.  The  scales  had  swung 
even  again.  What  was  a  school  blazer  and  twenty  runs  at  cricket, 
compared  with  the  glory  of  having  a  mother  like  that? 

But  if  tea  was  not  much  fom,  after  tea  was  worse. 

They  were  told  to  nm  and  play  in  the  garden;  and  obediently 
they  ran  out,  dog  and  all.  But  what  covld  you  play  at  with  a  su*- 
perior  being  who  had  made  twenty  runs  not  out,  in  a  House 
Match  —  whatever  that  might  be?  They  showed  him  their 
ring-doves  and  their  rabbits;  but  he  didn't  even  pretend  to  be 
interested,  though  Tara  did  her  best,  because  it  was  she  who  had 
brought  this  infliction  on  Roy. 

"How  about  the  summer-house?"  she  suggested  hopefully. 
For  the  summer-house  locker  contained  an  assortment  of  old 
tennis-bats,  mallets,  and  balls  that  might  prove  more  stimulating 
than  rabbits  and  doves.  Roy  offered  no  objection:  so  they  strag- 
gled across  a  corner  of  the  lawn  to  a  narrower  strip  behind  the 
tall  yew  hedge. 

The  grown-ups  were  gathered  under  the  twin  beeches;  and 
away  at  the  far  end  of  the  lawn  Roy's  mother  and  Tara's  mother 
were  strolling  up  and  down  in  the  sim. 

Again  Roy  noticed  how  Joe  Bradley  stared:  and  as  they 
rounded  the  comer  of  the  hedge  he  remarked  suddenly:  "I  say! 
There's  that  swagger  ayah  of  yours  walking  with  Lady  Despard. 
She's  jolly  smart,  for  an  ayah.  Did  you  bring  her  from  India? 
You  never  said  you'd  been  there." 

Roy  started  and  went  hot  all  over.  "Well,  I  have  —  just  on  a 
visit.  And  she's  not  an  ayah.   She's  my  Mmnmy!" 

Joe  Bradley  opened  his  mouth  as  well  as  his  eyes,  which  made 
him  look  plainer  than  ever. 

"Golly!  what  a  tale!  White  people  don't  have  ayahs  for 
Mothers  —  not  in  my  Lidia.  I  s'pose  your  Pater  maiyied  her 
out  there?  " 

"  He  didn't.  And  I  tell  you  she's  not  an  ayah." 

Roy's  low  voice  quivered  with  anger.  It  was  as  if  ten  thousand 
little  flames  had  come  alight  inside  him.  But  you  had  to  try  and 
be  polite  to  visitors;  so  he  added  with  a  virtuous  effort:  "She's 
a  really  and  truly  Princess  —  so  therel" 


26  FAR  TO  SEEK 

But  that  unspeakable  boy,  instead  of  being  impressed,  simply 
laughed  in  the  rudest  way. 

"Don't  excite,  you  silly  kid.  I'm  not  as  green  as  you  are. 
Besides  —  who  cares  —  ?  " 

It  flashed  on  Roy,  through  the  blur  of  his  bewildered  rage, 
that  perhaps  the  Boy-from-India  was  jealous.  He  tried  to  speak. 
Something  clutched  at  his  throat;  but  instinct  told  him  he  had  a 
pair  of  hands  .  .  . 

To  the  utter  amazement  of  Tara,  and  of  the  enemy,  he  silently 
sprang  at  the  bigger  boy;  grabbed  him  unscientifically  by  the 
knot  of  his  superior  necktie  and  hit  out,  with  more  fury  than  pre- 
cision, at  cheeks  and  eyes  and  nose  — 

For  a  few  exciting  seconds  he  had  it  all  his  own  way.  Then 
the  enemy  —  recovered  from  the  first  shock  of  surprise  — 
spluttered  wrathfuUy  and  hit  out  in  return.  He  had  weight  in 
his  favour.  He  tried  to  bend  Roy  backwards;  and  failing  began 
to  kick  viciously  wherever  he  could  get  at  him.  It  hurt  rather 
badly  and  made  Roy  angrier  than  ever.  In  a  white  heat  of  rage, 
he  shook  and  pummelled,  regardless  of  choking  sounds  and  fin- 
gers clutching  at  his  hair  .  .  . 

Tara,  half  excited  and  half  frightened,  could  only  grab  Prince's 
collar,  to  keep  him  from  rushing  into  the  fray;  and  when  Joe 
started  kicking,  it  was  all  she  could  do  not  to  let  him  go.  But  she 
knew  Athol  —  her  dearest  brother  —  would  say  it  wasn't  fair 
play.  So  she  tugged,  and  Prince  tugged;  while  the  boys,  fiercely 
silent,  rocked  to  and  fro;  and  Christine  sobbed  piteously  — 
"He's  hurting  Roy  —  he's  killing  Roy!" 

Tara,  fully  occupied  with  Prince,  could  only  jerk  out,  "Don't 
be  a  baby,  Chris.  Roy's  all  right.  He  loves  it."  Which  Christine 
simply  didn't  believe.  There  was  blood  on  his  tussore  shirt.  It 
mightn't  be  his,  but  still  —  It  made  even  Tara  feel  rather  sick; 
and  when  a  young  gardener  appeared  on  the  scene  she  called  out: 
"Oh,  Mudford,  do  stop  them  — or  something'll  happen." 

But  Mudford  —  British  to  the  bone  —  would  do  nothing  of 
the  kind.  He  saw  at  once  that  Roy  was  getting  the  better  of  an 
opponent  nearly  twice  his  weight;  and,  setting  down  his  barrow, 
he  shamelessly  applauded  his  young  master. 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  e7 

By  now,  the  Enemy's  nose  was  bleeding  freely  and  spoiling  the 
brand-new  blazer.  He  gasped  and  spluttered:  "Drop  it,  you 
little  beast!" 

But  Roy,  fired  by  Mudford's  applause,  only  hit  out  harder. 

"  Tologise  —  'pologise!  —  Say  she  isn't!" 

His  forward  jerk  on  the  words  took  Joe  unawares.  The  edge  of 
the  lawn  tripped  him  up  and  they  rolled  on  the  grass,  Joe  under- 
most, in  a  close  embrace  — 

And  at  that  critical  moment  there  came  strolling  round  the 
corner  of  the  hedge  a  group  of  gro%vn-ups  —  Sir  Nevil  Sinclair 
with  Mrs.  Bradley,  Lady  Roscoe,  Lady  Despard,  and  Roy's 
godfather,  the  distinguished  novelist  Cuthbert  Broome. 

Mudford,  and  his  barrow,  departed;  and  Tara  looked  appeal- 
ingly  at  her  mother. 

■  Roy  —  intent  on  the  prostrate  foe  —  suddenly  felt  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder  and  heard  his  father's  voice  say  sharply:  "Get  up, 
Roy,  and  explain  yourself!" 

They  got  up,  both  of  them  —  and  stood  there,  lookmg  shy 
and  stupefied  and  very  much  the  worse  for  wear:  —  hair  ruffled, 
faces  discoloured,  shirts  torn  open.  One  of  Roy's  stockings  was 
slipping  down;  and,  in  the  midst  of  his  confused  sensations,  he 
heard  the  excited  voice  of  Mrs.  Bradley  urgently  demanding 
to  know  what  her  'poor  dear  boy'  could  have  done  to  be  treated 

like  that.  ,       ^ 

No  one  seemed  to  answer  her;  and  the  poor  dear  boy  was  too 
busy  comforting  his  nose  to  take  much  interest  in  the  proceed- 

inss. 

Lady  Despard  (you  could  tell  at  a  glance  she  was  Tara'^s 
mother)  was  on  her  knees  comforting  Christine;  and,  as  Roy's 
senses  cleared,  he  saw  with  a  throb  of  relief  that  his  mother 
was  not  there.  But  Aunt  Jane  was  —  and  Uncle  Cuthbert  — 

He  seemed  to  stand  there  panting  and  aching  in  an  endless 
silence,  full  of  eyes.  He  did  not  know  that  his  father  was  giving 
him  a  few  seconds  —  it  was  no  more  —  to  recover  himself*  . 

Then:  "What  do  you  mean  by  it,  Roy?"  he  asked:  and  this 
time  his  voice  was  really  stem.  It  hurt  more  than  the  bruises. 
"Gentlemen  don't  hammer  their  guests."    This  was  an  unex- 


28  FAR  TO  SEEK 

pected  blow.  And  it  wasn't  fair.  How  could  he  explain  before 
'all  those?  His  cheeks  were  burning,  his  head  was  aching;  and 
tears,  that  must  not  be  allowed  to  fall,  were  pricking  like 
needles  under  his  lids. 

It  was  Tara  who  spoke  —  still  clutching  Prince,  lest  he  over- 
whelm Roy  and  upset  his  hardly  maintained  dignity. 

"Joe  made  hun  angry  —  he  did,"  she  thrust  in  with  feminine 
officiousness;  and  was  checked  by  her  mother's  v/aming  finger. 

Mrs.  Bradley  —  long  and  thin  and  beaky  —  bore  down  upon 
her  battered  son,  who  edged  away  sullenly  from  proffered 
caresses. 

Su:  Nevil,  not  daring  to  meet  the  himiorous  eye  of  Cuthbert 
Broome,  still  contemplated  the  dishevelled  dignity  of  his  own 
small  son  —  half  puzzled,  half  vexed. 

^  *' You've  done  it  now,  Roy.  Say  you're  sorry,"  he  prompted; 
his  voice  a  shade  less  stem  than  he  intended. 
Roy  shook  his  head. 
*'  It's  him  to  say  —  not  me." 
"Did  he  begin  it?" 
"No." 

"Of  course  he  didn't,"  snapped  the  injured  mother.  "He's 
been  properly  brought  up"  —  which  was  not  exactly  polite;  but 
she  was  beside  herself  —  simply  an  irate  mother-creature,  all 
beak  and  ruffled  feathers.  "You  deserve  to  be  whipped.  You've 
hurt  him  badly." 

"Oh,  dry  up,  Mother,"  Joe  murmured  behind  his  sanguinary 
handkerchief,  edging  still  farther  away  from  maternal  fussings 
and  possible  catechism. 

Nevil  Smclair  saw  clearly  that  his  son  would  neither  apologise 
nor  explain.  At  heart  he  suspected  young  Bradley,  if  only  on  ac- 
count of  his  insufferable  mother,  but  the  laws  of  hospitality  must 
be  upheld. 

"  Go  to  your  own  room,  Roy,"  he  said  with  creditable  severity, 
"and  stay  there  till  I  come." 

Roy  gave  him  one  look  —  mutely  reproachful.  Then  —  to 
everyone's  surprise  and  Tara's  delight  —  he  walked  straight  up 
to  the  Enemy. 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  29 

"I  iwZ  hammer  hardest!  Tologise!" 

The  older  boy  mumbled  somethmg  suspiciously  like  the  fatal 
word:  a  suspicion  confirmed  by  Roy's  next  remark:  "I'm  sorry 
your  blazer's  spoilt.  But  you  made  me." 

And  the  elders,  watching  with  amused  approbation,  had  no 
inkling  that  the  words  were  spoken  not  by  Roy  Sinclair,  but 
by  Prithvi  Raj. 

The  Enemy,  twice  humbled,  answered  nothing;  and  Roy  — 
his  dignity  unimpaired  by  such  trifles  as  a  lump  on  his  cheek,  a 
dishevelled  tie,  and  one  stocking  curled  lovingly  round  his 
ankle  —  walked  leisurely  away,  with  never  a  glance  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  'grown-ups,'  who  had  no  concern  whatever  with  this, 
the  most  important  event  of  his  life. 

Tara  —  torn  between  wrath  and  admiration  —  watched  him 
go.  In  her  eyes  he  was  a  hero,  a  victim  of  injustice  and  the  den- 
sity of  grown-ups. 

She  promptly  released  Prince,  who  bounded  after  his  master. 
She  wanted  to  go  too.  It  was  all  her  fault,  bringing  that  horrid 
boy  to  tea.  She  did  hope  Roy  would  explam  things  properly. 
But  boys  were  stupid  sometimes  and  she  wanted  to  make  sure. 
While  her  mother  was  tactfully  suggesting  a  homeward  move, 
she  slipped  up  to  Sir  Nevil  and  insinuated  a  small  hand  into  his. 

"Uncle  Nevil,  do  believe,"  she  whispered  urgently.  "Truly  it 
isn't  fair  —  " 

His  quick  frown  warned  her  to  say  no  more;  but  the  pressure  of 
his  hand  comforted  her  a  little. 

All  the  same  she  hated  going  home.  She  hated  'that  putrid 
boy'  —  a  forbidden  adjective;  but  what  else  could  you  call  him? 
She  was  glad  he  would  be  gone  the  day  after  to-morrow.  She 
was  even  more  glad  that  his  nose  was  bleeding  and  his  eye 
bunged  up  and  his  important  blazer  all  bloodied.  Girl  though 
she  was,  there  ran  a  fiercer  strain  in  her  than  in  Roy. 

As  they  all  moved  off,  she  had  an  inspiration.  She  was  given, 
that  way. 

"  Mummy  darling,"  she  said  in  her  small,  clear  voice,  "mayn't 
I  stay  back  a  little  and  play  with  Chris?  She's  so  unhappy. 
Alice  could  fetch  me  —  couldn't  she?  Please." 


30  FAR  TO  SEEK 

The  innocent  request  was  underlined  by  an  unmistakeable 
glance  through  her  lashes  at  Joe.  She  wanted  him  to  hear;  and 
she  didn't  care  if  he  understood  —  him  and  his  beaky  mother! 
Clearly  her  own  Mummy  understood.  She  was  nibbling  her  lips, 
trying  not  to  smile. 

"Very  well,  dear,"  she  said.  "I'll  send  AUce  at  half -past  six. 
Run  along." 

Tara  gave  her  hand  a  grateful  little  squeeze  —  and  ran. 

She  would  have  hated  the  'beaky  mother'  worse  than  ever 
could  she  have  heard  her  remark  to  Lady  Despard,  when  they 
were  alone. 

*'  Really,  a  most  obstinate,  ungoverned  child.  His  mother,  of 
course  —  a  very  pretty  creature  —  but  what  can  you  expect? 
Natives  always  ruin  boys." 

Lady  Despard  —  Lilamani  Sinclair's  earliest  champion  and 
friend  —  could  be  trusted  to  deal  effectually  with  a  remark  of 
that  quality. 

As  for  Tara  —  once '  the  creatures '  were  out  of  sight  they  were 
extinct.  All  the  embryo  mother  in  her  was  centred  on  Roy.  It 
was  a  shame  sending  him  to  his  room,  like  a  naughty  boy,  when 
he  was  really  a  champion,  a  King-Arthur's  Knight.  But  if  only 
he  properly  explained,  Uncle  Nevil  would  surely  understand  — 

And  suddenly  there  sprang  a  dilemma.  How  could  Roy  make 
himself  repeat  to  Uncle  Ne\dl  the  rude  remarks  of  that  abomina- 
ble boy?  And  if  not  —  how  was  he  going  to  properly  explain  — ? 


Chapter  IV 

What  a  great  day  came  and  passed; 
Unknown  then,  but  known  at  last  — 

Alice  Meynell 

That  very  problem  was  puzzling  Roy  as  he  lay  on  his  bed  with 
Prince's  head  against  his  shoulder,  aching  a  good  deal,  exulting 
at  thought  of  his  new-bom  knighthood,  wondering  how  long  he 
was  to  be  treated  like  a  sinner  —  and,  through  it  all,  simply 
longing  for  his  mother. 

It  was  the  conscious  craving  for  her  sympathy,  her  applause, 
that  awakened  him  to  his  dilemma. 

He  had  championed  her  with  all  his  might  against  that  lumpy 
Boy-of-Ten  —  who  kicked  in  the  meanest  way;  and  he  couldn't 
explain  why,  so  she  couldn't  know  ever.  The  memory  of  those 
insulting  words  hurt  him  so  that  he  shrank  from  repeating  them 
to  anyone  —  least  of  all  to  her.  Yet  how  could  he  see  her  and 
feel  her  and  not  tell  her  everything?  She  would  surely  ask  — 
she  would  want  to  know  —  and  then  —  when  he  tried  to  think 
beyond  that  point  he  felt  simply  lost. 

It  was  an  impasse  none  the  less  tragic  because  he  was  only  nine. 
To  tell  her  every  little  thing  was  as  simple  a  necessity  of  Ufe  as 
eating  or  sleeping;  and  —  till  this  bewildering  moment  —  as 
much  a  matter  of  coiu^se.  For  Lilamani  Sinclair,  with  her  East- 
em  mother  genius,  had  forged  between  herself  and  her  first  born 
a  link  woven  of  the  tenderest,  most  subtle  fibres  of  heart  and 
spirit;  a  link  so  vital,  yet  so  unassertive,  that  it  bid  fair  to  stand 
the  strain  of  absence,  the  test  of  time.  So  close  a  link  with  any 
human  heart,  while  it  makes  for  beauty,  makes  also  for  pain 
and  perplexity;  as  Roy  was  just  realising  to  his  dismay. 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps  he  sat  up,  suddenly  very  much  awp,re 
of  his  unheroic  dishevelment.  He  tugged  at  the  fallen  stocking 
and  made  hasty  dabs  at  his  hair.  But  it  was  only  Esther  the 
housemaid  with  an  envelope  on  a  tray.  Envelopes,  however,  were 
always  mysterious  and  exciting. 


32  FAR  TO  SEEK 

His  name  was  scribbled  on  this  one  in  Tara's  hand;  and  as 
Esther  retreated  he  opened  it,  wondering  .  .  . 

It  contained  a  half-sheet  of  note-paper  and  between  the  folds 
lay  a  circle  of  narrow  blue  ribbon  plaited  in  three  strands.  But 
only  two  of  the  strands  were  ribbon;  the  third  was  a  tress  of  her 
gleaming  hair.  Roy  gazed  at  it  a  moment,  lost  in  admiration, 
still  wondering;  then  he  glanced  at  Tara's  letter  —  not  scrawled 
but  written  with  laboured  neatness  and  precision. 

Dear  Roy,  it  was  splendid.  You  are  Prithvi  Raj.  I  am  sending  you 
the  bangel  like  Aunt  Lila  told  us.  It  can't  be  gold  or  jewels.  But  i've 
pulled  the  ribbin  out  of  my  petticote  and  put  in  sum  of  my  hair  to 
make  it  spangly.  So  now  you  are  Braselet  Bound  Brother.  Don't 
forget.  From  Tara. 

I  hope  you  aren't  hurting  much.  Do  splain  to  Uncle  Nevil  properly 
and  come  down  soon.  I  am  hear  playing  with  Chris.  Tara. 

.  Roy  sat  looking  from  the  letter  to  the  bangle  with  a  distinctly 
pleasant  kind  of  mixed-up  feeling  inside.  He  was  so  surprised,  so 
comforted,  so  elated  by  this  tribute  from  his  High-Tower  Prin- 
cess, who  was  an  exacting  person  in  the  matter  of  heroes.  Now  — 
besides  being  a  Knight  and  a  champion  —  he  was  Bracelet- 
Bound  Brother  as  well. 

Only  the  other  day  his  mother  had  told  them  a  tale  about  this 
old  custom  of  bracelet  sending  in  Rajputana:  —  how,  on  a  certain 
holy  day,  any  woman  —  married  or  not  married  —  may  send  her 
bracelet  token  to  any  man.  If  he  accepts  it,  and  sends  in  return 
an  embroidered  bodice,  he  becomes,  from  that  hour,  her  bracelet 
brother,  vowed  to  her  service,  like  a  Christian  Knight  in  the  days 
of  chivalry.  The  bracelet  may  be  of  gold  or  jewels  or  even  of  silk 
interwoven  with  spangles  —  like  Tara's  impromptu  token.  The 
two  who  are  bracelet-bound  might  possibly  never  meet  face  to 
face.  Yet  she  who  sends  may  ask  of  him  who  accepts  any  service 
she  pleases;  and  he  may  not  deny  it  —  even  though  it  involve  the 
risk  of  his  life. 

The  ancient  custom,  she  told  them,  still  holds  good,  though  it 
has  declined  in  use,  Uke  all  things  chivalrous,  in  an  age  deafened 
by  the  clamour  of  industrial  strife;  an  age  grown  blind  to  the 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      33 

beauty  of  service,  that,  in  defiance  of  'progress,'  still  remains  the 
keynote  of  an  Indian  woman's  life. 

So  these  privileged  children  had  heard  much  of  it,  through  the 
medium  of  Lilamani's  Indian  tales;  and  this  particular  one  had 
made  a  deeper  impression  on  Tara  than  on  Roy;  perhaps  because 
the  budding  woman  in  her  relished  the  power  of  choice  and  com- 
mand it  conferred  on  her  own  sex. 

Certainly  no  thought  of  possible  future  commands  dawned  on 
Roy.  It  was  her  pride  in  his  achievement,  so  characteristically 
expressed,  that  flattered  his  incipient  masculine  vanity  and 
added  a  cubit  to  his  stature. 

He  knew  now  what  he  meant  to  be  when  he  grew  up.  Not  a 
painter,  or  a  soldier,  or  a  gardener  —  but  a  Bracelet-Bound 
Brother. 

Gingerly,  almost  shyly,  he  slipped  over  his  hand  the  deftly 
woven  trifle  of  ribbon  and  gleaming  hair.  As  the  first  glow 
of  pleasure  subsided,  there  sprang  the  instinctive  thought  — 
"Won't  Mummy  be  pleased!"  And  straightway  he  was  caught 
afresh  in  the  toils  of  his  dilemma  —  How  could  he  possibly  ex- 
plain — ? 

What  was  she  doing?  Why  didn't  she  come  — ? 

There  — !  His  ear  caught  far-off  footsteps  —  too  heavy  for 
hers.  He  slipped  off  the  bracelet,  folded  it  in  Tara's  letter,  and 
tucked  it  away  inside  his  shirt. 

Hurriedly  —  a  little  nervously  —  he  tied  his  brown  bow  and 
got  upon  his  feet,  just  as  the  door  opened  and  his  father  came  in. 

"Well,  Roy!"  he  said,  and  for  a  few  seconds  he  steadily  re- 
garded his  small  son  with  eyes  that  tried  very  hard  to  be  grave 
and  judicial.  Scoldings  and  assertions  of  authority  were  not  in 
his  line:  and  the  tug  at  his  heart-strings  was  peculiarly  strong  in 
the  case  of  Roy.  Fair  himself,  as  the  boy  was  dark,  their  intrinsic 
likeness  of  form  and  feature  was  yet  so  striking  that  there  were 
moments  —  as  now  —  when  it  gave  Nevil  Sinclair  an  eerie  sense 
of  looking  into  his  own  eyes;  —  which  was  awkward,  as  he  had 
come  steeled  for  chastisement,  if  needs  must,  though  his  every 
instinct  revolted  from  the  mutual  indignity.  He  had  only  once 
inflicted  it  on  Roy  for  open  defiance  in  one  of  his  stormy  ebuUi- 


34  FAR  TO  SEEK 

tions  of  temper;  and,  at  this  moment,  he  did  not  seem  to  see  a 
himible  penitent  before  him. 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself?"  he  went  on,  hoping 
the  pause  had  been  impressive;  strongly  suspecting  it  had  been 
nothing  of  the  kind.  "  Gentlemen,  as  I  told  you,  don't  hammer 
their  guests.  It  was  rather  a  bad  hammering,  to  judge  from  his 
handkerchief.  And  you  don't  look  particularly  sorry  about  it, 
either." 

"I'm  not  —  not  one  littlest  bit." 

This  was  disconcerting;  but  Nevil  held  his  ground. 

"Then  I  suppose  I've  got  to  whack  you.  If  boys  aren't  sorry 
for  their  sins,  it's  the  only  way." 

Roy's  eyeUds  flickered  a  little. 

"You  better  not,"  he  said  with  the  same  impersonal  air  of 
conviction.  "You  see,  it  wouldn't  make  me  sorry.  And  you 
don't  hurt  badly.  Not  half  as  much  as  Joe  did.  He  was  mean. 
He  kicked.  I  wouldn't  have  stopped,  all  the  same,  if  you 
Jiadn't  come." 

The  note  of  reproach  was  more  disconcerting  than  ever. 

"  Well,  if  whacking's  no  use,  what  am  I  to  do  with  you?  Shut 
you  up  here  till  bedtime  —  eh?  " 

Roy  considered  that  dismal  proposition,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
summer  world  outside. 

"Well  —  you  can  if  you  like.  But  it  wouldn't  be  fair."  A 
pause.  "You  don't  know  what  a  horrid  boy  he  was.  Daddy. 
You'd  have  hit  him  harder  —  even  if  he  was  a  guest." 

"I  wonder!"  Nevil  fatally  admitted.  "Of  course  it  would  all 
depend  on  the  provocation." 

"  What's  *  provication '  ?  " 

The  instant  alertness  over  a  new  word  brought  back  the  smile 
to  Nevil's  eyes. 

"  It  means  —  saying  or  doing  something  bad  enough  to  make 
it  right  for  you  to  be  angry." 

"Well,  it  was  bad  enough.  It  was"  —  a  portentous  pause  — 
"about  Mummy." 

"About  Miunmy?"  The  sharp  change  in  his  father's  tone 
was  at  once  startling  and  comforting.    "Look  here,  Roy.   No 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      35 

more  mysteries.  This  is  my  affair  as  much  as  yours.  Come 
here." 

Pulling  a  bedside  chair  near  the  window,  he  sat  down  and 
drew  Roy  close  to  him,  taking  his  shoulders  between  his  hands. 

"Now,  then,  old  boy,  tell  me  just  exactly  what  happened  —  as 
man  to  man." 

The  appeal  was  irresistible.  But  — how  could  he — ?  The 
very  change  in  his  father's  manner  made  the  telling  at  once  more 
diflficult  and  more  urgent. 

"  Daddy  —  it  hurts  too  much.  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it  — " 
he  faltered,  and  the  blood  tingled  in  his  cheeks. 

If  Nevil  Sinclair  was  not  a  stem  father,  neither  was  be  a  very 
demonstrative  one.  Even  his  closest  relations  were  tinged  with 
something  of  the  artist's  detadunent,  and  innate  respect  for  the 
individual  even  in  embryo.  But  at  sight  of  Roy's  distress  and 
delicacy  of  feeling,  his  heart  melted  in  hun.  Without  a  word,  he 
slipped  an  arm  round  the  boy's  shoulder  and  drew  him  closer 
stiU. 

"That  better,  eh?  You've  got  to  pull  it  through,  somehow," 
he  said  gently,  so  holding  him  that  Roy  could,  if  he  chose,  nestle 
against  him.  He  did  choose.  It  might  be  babyish;  but  he  hated 
telling:  and  it  was  a  wee  bit  easier  with  his  face  hidden.  So,  in 
broken  phrases  and  in  a  small  voice  that  quivered  with  anger 
revived  —  he  told. 

While  he  was  telling,  his  father  said  nothing;  and  when  it  was 
over,  he  still  said  nothing.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  out  of  the 
window  and  Roy  felt  him  draw  one  big  breath. 

"  Have  you  got  to  whack  me  —  now,  Daddy?  "  he  asked,  still 
in  his  small  voice. 

His  father's  hand  closed  on  his  arm.  "No.  You  were  right, 
Roy,"  he  said.  "I  would  have  hit  harder.  Ill-mannered  little 
beast !  All  the  same  —  " 

A  pause.  He,  no  less  than  Roy,  found  speech  difficult.  He  had 
fancied  himself,  by  now,  inured  to  this  kind  of  jar  —  so  frequent 
in  the  early  years  of  his  daringly  unconventional  marriage.  It 
seemed  he  was  mistaken.  He  had  been  vaguely  on  edge  all  the 
afternoon.    What  young  Jpe  had  x^dd}(  !>lwted  out,  Mrs. 


36  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Bradley's  manner  had  tacitly  expressed.  He  had  succeeded 
in  smothering  his  own  sensations  only  to  be  confronted  with  the 
effect  of  it  all  on  Roy  —  who  must  somehow  be  made  to  under- 
stand. 

"The  fact  is,  old  man,"  he  went  on,  trying  to  speak  in  his 
normal  voice,  "young  Bradley  and  a  good  many  of  his  betters 
spend  years  in  India  without  coming  to  know  very  much  about 
the  real  people  over  there.  You'll  understand  why  when  you're 
older.  They  all  have  Indians  for  servants  and  they  see  Indians 
working  in  shops  and  villages,  just  like  plenty  of  our  people  do 
here.  But  they  don't  often  meet  many  of  the  other  sort  —  like 
Mummy  and  Grandfather  and  Uncle  Rama  —  except  sometimes 
in  England.  And  then  — they  make  stupid  mistakes  —  just 
because  they  don't  know  better.  But  they  needn't  be  rude  about 
it,  like  Joe:  and  I'm  glad  you  punched  hun  —  hard." 

"So'm  I.  Fearfully  glad."  He  stood  upright  now,  his  head 
erect:  — proud  of  his  father's  approval,  and  being  treated  as 
*man  to  man.'  "But,  Daddy  — what  are  we  going  to  do  .  .  . 
about  Mummy?  I  do  want  her  to  know  ...  it  was  for  her.  But 
I  couldn't  tell  —  what  Joe  said.  Could  you?" 

Nevil  shook  his  head. 

"Then  — what?" 

"You  leave  it  to  me,  Roy.  I'll  make  things  clear  without 
repeating  Joe's  rude  remarks.  She'd  have  been  up  before  this; 
but  I  had  to  see  you  first  —  because  of  the  whacking!"  His  eye 
twinkled.   "She's  longing  to  get  at  your  bruises." 

"Oh,  nev'  mind  my  bruises.  They're  all  right  now." 

"And  beautiful  to  behold!"  He  lightly  touched  the  lump  on 
Roy's  cheek.  "I'd  let  her  dab  them,  though.  Women  love 
fussing  over  us  when  we're  hurt  —  especially  if  we've  been 
fighting  for  them!" 

"Yes  —  they  do,"  Roy  agreed  gravely;  and  to  his  surprise,  his 
father  drew  him  close  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

His  mother  did  not  keep  him  waiting  long.  First  the  quick 
flutter  of  her  footsteps.  Then  the  door  gently  opened  —  and  she 
flew  to  him,  her  sari  blowing  out  in  beautiful  curves.  Then  he 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      37 

was  in  her  arms,  gathered  into  her  silken  softness  and  the  faint 
scent  of  sandalwood;  while  her  lips,  light  as  butterfly  wings, 
caressed  the  bruise  on  his  cheek. 

"Oh,  what  a  bad,  wicked  Sonling!"  she  murmiured,  gathering 
him  close. 

He  loved  her  upside-down  fashion  of  praise  and  endearment; 
never  guessing  its  Eastern  significance  —  to  avert  the  watchful- 
ness of  jealous  gods  swift  to  spy  out  our  dearest  treasures,  that 
hinder  detachment,  and  snatch  them  from  us.  "Such  a  big  rude 
boy  —  and  you  tried  to  kill  him  only  because  he  did  not  under- 
stand your  queer  kind  of  mother!  That  you  will  find  often,  Roy; 
because  it  is  not  custom.  Everywhere  it  is  the  same.  For  some 
kind  of  people  not  to  be  like  custom  is  much  worse  than  not  to  be 
good.  And  that  boy  has  a  mother  too  much  like  custom.  Not 
surprising  if  he  didn't  understand." 

"I  made  him,  though  — I  did,"  Roy  exulted  shamelessly, 
marvelling  at  his  father's  cleverness,  wondering  how  much  he  had 
told.  "I  hammered  hard.  And  I'm  not  sorry  a  bit.  Nor  Daddy 
isn't  either." 

For  answer  she  gave  him  a  convulsive  little  squeeze  —  and 
felt  the  crackle  of  paper  under  his  shirt.  "Something  hidden 
there!  What  is  it,  Sonling?"  she  asked,  with  laughing  eyes:  and 
suddenly  shyness  overwhelmed  him.  For  the  moment  he  had 
forgotten  his  treasure;  and  now  he  was  wondering  if  he  could 
show  it  —  even  to  her. 

"It  is  Tara  —  I  think  if  s  rather  a  secret  — "  he  began. 

"But  I  may  see?"  Then,  as  he  still  hesitated,  she  added  with 
grave  tenderness:  "Only  if  you  are  wishing  it,  son  of  my  heart. 
To-day  —  you  are  a  man." 

From  his  father  that  recognition  had  been  sufficiently  up- 
lifting. And  now  —  from  her  ... !  The  subtle  flattery  of  it  and 
the  deeper  prompting  of  his  own  heart  demolished  his  budding 
attempt  at  reserve. 

"I  am— truly,"  he  said:  and  she,  sitting  where  his  father 
had  sat,  unfolded  Tara's  letter  —  and  the  bangle  lay  revealed. 

Roy  had  not  guessed  how  surprised  she  would  be  —  and  how 
pleased.  She  gave  a  little  quick  gasp  and  murmured  something 


38  FAR  TO  SEEK 

he  could  not  catch.  Then  she  looked  at  him  with  shining  eyes, 
and  her  voice  had  its  low,  serious  note  that  stirred  him  like  music. 

"Now  —  you  are  Bracelet-Bound,  my  son.  So  yoimg!"  Roy 
felt  a  throb  of  pride.  It  was  clearly  a  fine  thing  to  be. 

"Must  I  give  a  'broidered  bodice?" 

"I  will  broider  a  bodice  —  the  most  beautiful;  and  you  shall 
give  it.  Remember,  Roy,  it  is  not  a  little  matter.  It  is  for  al- 
ways." 

"Even  when  I'm  a  grown-up  man?" 

"Yes,  even  then.  If  she  shall  ask  from  you  any  service,  you 
must  not  refuse  —  ever." 

Roy  wrinkled  his  forehead.  He  had  forgotten  that  part  of  it. 
Tara  might  ask  anything.  You  couldn't  tell  with  girls.  He  had  a 
moment  of  apprehension. 

"But,  Mummy,  I  don't  think  —  Tara  didn't  mean  all  that. 
It's  only  —  our  sort  of  game  of  play  — " 

Unerringly  she  read  his  thoughts,  and  shook  her  head  at  him 
with  smiling  eyes,  as  when  he  made  naughty  faces  about  Aunt 
Jane. 

"Too  sacred  thing  for  only  game  of  play,  Roy.  By  keeping  the 
bracelet,  you  are  bound."  Her  smile  deepened.  "You  were  not 
afraid  of  the  big  rude  boy.  Yet  you  are  just  so  much  afraid  — 
for  Tara."  She  indicated  the  amount  with  the  rose-pink  tip  of 
her  smallest  finger.  "Tara  —  almost  like  sister  —  would  never 
ask  anything  that  could  be  wrong  to  do." 

At  this  gentle  rebuke  he  flushed  and  held  his  head  a  shade 
higher. 

"  I'm  not  afraid,  Mummy.  And  I  will  keep  the  bracelet  —  and 
I  am  bound." 

"That  is  my  brave  son." 

"She  said  —  I  am  Prithvi  Raj." 

" She  said  true."  Her  hand  caressed  his  hair.  "There!  Now 
you  can  run  down  and  tell  you  are  forgiven." 

"You  too,  Mummy?" 

"In  a  little  time.  Not  just  now.  But  see  — "  her  brows  flew 
up.  "I  was  coming  to  mend  your  poor  bruises!" 

"I  haven't  got  any  bruises!" 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  39 

The  engaging  touch  of  swagger  delighted  her.  A  man  to-day  — 
in  very  deed.  Her  gaze  dwelt  upon  him.  It  was  as  if  she  looked 
through  the  eyes  of  her  husband  into  the  heart  of  her  son. 

Gravely  she  entered  into  his  mood. 

*'  That  is  good.  Then  we  will  just  make  you  tidy  —  and  one 
littlest  dab  for  this  not-bruise  on  your  cheek." 

So  much  he  graciously  permitted:  then  he  ran  off  to  receive  the 
ovation  awaiting  him  from  Tara  and  Chris. 


Chapter  V 

When  old  words  die  out  on  the  tongue,  new  melodies  break  forth  from  the  heart; 
and  where  the  old  tracks  are  lost,  new  country  is  revealed  with  its  wonders. 

Rabindranath  Tagobe 

Left  to  herself,  Lilamani  moved  back  to  the  window  with  her 
innate,  deliberate  grace.  There  she  sat  down  again,  resting  her 
cheek  on  her  hand;  drinking  in  the  serenity,  the  translucent  still- 
ness of  clear,  green  spaces  robed  in  early  evening  light,  like  a  bride 
arrayed  for  the  coming  of  her  lord.  The  higher  tree-tops  were 
haloed  with  glory.  Young  leaves  of  beeches  and  poplars  gleamed 
like  minted  gold;  and  on  the  lawn  the  great  twin  beeches  cast 
a  stealthily  encroaching  continent  of  shadow.  In  the  shrubbery 
birds  were  trilling  out  their  ecstasy  of  welcome  to  the  sun,  in  his 
Hour  of  Union  with  Earth — the  Divine  Mother,  of  whom  every 
himian  mother  is,  in  Eastern  eyes,  a  part,  a  symbol,  however 
imperfect. 

Yet,  beneath  her  carven  tranquillity,  heart  and  spirit  were 
deeply  stirred.  For  all  Nevil's  skill  in  editing  the  tale  of  Roy's 
championship,  she  had  read  his  hidden  thoughts  as  unerringly  as 
she  had  divined  Mrs.  Bradley's  curiosity  and  faint  hostility  be- 
neath the  veneer  of  good  manners  not  yet  imparted  to  her  son. 

Helen  Despard  —  wife  of  a  retired  Lieutenant-Governor  — 
had  scores  of  Anglo-Indian  friends;  but  not  all  of  them  shared 
her  enthusiasm  for  India,  her  sympathetic  understanding  of  its 
peoples.  Lilamani  had  too  soon  discovered  that  the  ardent  decla- 
ration, "I  love  India,"  was  apt  to  mean  merely  that  the  speaker 
loved  riding  and  dancing  and  sunshine  and  vast  spaces,  with 
'the  real  India'  for  a  dim,  efifective  background.  And  by  now, 
she  could  almost  tell  at  a  glance  which  were  the  right,  and  which 
the  wrong,  kind  of  Anglo-Indian  so  far  as  she  and  Nevil  were 
concerned.  It  was  not  like  Helen  to  inflict  the  wrong  kind  on  her; 
but  it  had  all  been  Mrs.  Bradley's  doing.  She  had  been  tactless; 
insistent  in  her  demand  to  see  the  beautiful  old  garden  and 
the  famous  artist-baronet,  who  had  so  boldly  flouted  tradition. 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  41 

Helen's  lame  excuses  had  been  airily  dismissed  and  the  discour- 
tesy of  a  point-blank  refusal  was  beyond  her. 

She  had  frankly  explained  matters  to  her  beloved  Lilamani  as 
they  strolled  together  on  the  lawn,  while  Roy  was  enlightening 
Joe  on  the  farther  side  of  the  yew  hedge. 

Roy's  championship  had  moved  his  mother  more  profoundly 
than  she  dared  let  him  see  without  revealing  all  she  knew.  For 
the  same  reason,  she  could  not  show  Nevil  her  full  appreciation  of 
his  tact  and  deUcacy.  How  useless  —  trying  to  hide  his  thoughts 
— he  ought  to  know  by  now :  but  how  beautiful  —  how  endearing ! 

That  she,  who  had  boldly  defied  all  gods  and  godlings,  all 
claims  of  caste  and  family,  should  have  reaped  so  rich  a  har- 
vest — !  For  her — high  priestess  of  the  inner  life — that  was  the 
miracle  of  miracles:  scarcely  less  so  to-day  than  in  that  crown- 
ing hour  when  she  had  placed  her  first  man-child  in  the  arms 
of  her  husband,  still,  at  heart,  lord  of  her  being.  For  the  tale  of 
her  inner  life  might  almost  be  told  in  two  words  —  she  loved. 

Even  now  —  so  many  years  after  —  she  thrilled  to  remember 
how,  in  that  one  magical  moment,  without  nearness  or  speech  or 
touch,  the  floating  strands  of  their  destinies  had  become  so 
miraculously  entangled,  that  neither  gods  nor  godlings,  nor  house- 
hold despots  of  East  or  West  had  power  to  sever  them.  From 
one  swift  pencil  sketch,  stolen  without  leave  —  he  sitting  on  the 
path  below,  she  dreaming  on  the  hotel  balcony  above  —  had 
blossomed  the  twin  flower  of  their  love:  the  deeper  revealing  of 
marriage  —  its  living  texture  woven  of  joy  and  pain;  and  the 
wonder  of  their  after  Ufe  together  —  a  wonder  that,  to  her  ardent, 
sensitive  spirit,  still  seemed  new  every  morning,  like  the  coming  of 
the  sun.  A  poet  in  essence,  she  shared  with  all  true  poets  that 
sense  of  eternal  freshness  in  familiar  things  that,  perhaps  more 
than  any  other  gift  of  God,  keeps  the  bloom  on  every  phase  and 
every  relation  of  life.  By  her  temperament  of  genius,  she  had 
quickened  in  her  husband  the  flickering  spark  that  might  else 
have  been  smothered  under  opposing  influences.  Each,  in  a 
quite  unusual  degree,  had  fulfilled  the  life  of  the  other,  and  so 
wrought  harmony  from  conflicting  elements  of  race  and  religion 
that  seemed  fated  to  wreck  their  brave  adventure.  To  gain  all, 


42  FAR  TO  SEEK 

they  had  risked  all:  and  events  had  amazingly  justified  them. 

Within  a  year  of  his  ill-considered  marriage,  Sir  Nevil  had 
astonished  all  who  knew  him  with  the  unique  Exhibition  of  the 
now  famous  Ramayana  pictures,  inspired  by  his  wife:  a  series 
of  arresting  canvases,  setting  forth  the  story  of  India's  great  epic, 
her  confession  of  faith  in  the  two  supreme  loyalties  —  of  the 
Queen  to  her  husband,  of  the  King  to  his  people.  His  daring 
venture  had  proved  successful  beyond  hope.  Artistic  and  critical 
London  had  hailed  him  as  a  new-comer  of  promise,  amounting  to 
genius:  and  Lilamani  Sinclair,  daughter  of  Rajputs,  had  only 
escaped  becoming  the  craze  of  the  moment  by  her  precipitate 
withdrawal  to  Antibes,  where  she  had  come  within  an  ace  of 
losing  all,  largely  through  the  malign  influence  of  Jane  —  her 
evil  genius  during  those  wonderful,  difficult,  early  months  of 
marriage. 

Nevil  had  retiu-ned  to  find  himself  a  man  of  note;  a  prophet, 
even  in  his  own  county,  where  feathers  had  been  rufiled  a  Uttle 
by  his  erratic  proceedings.  Hence  a  discreetly  changed  attitude 
in  the  neighbourhood,  when  Lilamani,  barely  nineteen,  had  pre- 
sented her  husband  with  a  son. 

But  —  for  all  the  gracious  condescension  of  the  elderly,  and 
the  frank  curiosity  of  the  young  —  only  a  discerning  few  had 
made  any  real  headway  with  this  attractive,  oddly  disconcerting 
child  of  another  continent;  this  creature  of  queer  reserves  and 
aloofness  and  passionate  pride  of  race.  The  friendliest  were 
baffled  by  her  incomprehensible  lack  of  social  instinct,  the  fruit 
of  India's  purdah  system.  Loyal  wives  and  mothers  who  *  adored ' 
their  children  —  yet  spent  most  of  their  day  in  pursuit  of  other 
interests  —  were  nonplussed  by  her  complete  absorption  in  the 
joys  and  sanctities  of  home.  Yet,  in  course  of  time,  her  patient 
simplicity  and  sincerity  had  disarmed  prejudice.  The  least  per- 
ceptive could  not  choose  but  see  that  she  was  genuinely,  in- 
trinsically different,  not  merely  in  the  matter  of  iridescent  silks 
and  saris,  but  in  the  very  colour  of  her  soul. 

Not  that  they  would  have  expressed  it  so.  To  talk  about  the 
soul  and  its  colour  savoured  of  being  psychic  or  morbid  —  which 
Heaven  forbid  I  The  soul  of  the  right-minded  Bramleigh  matron 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      43 

was  a  neutral-tinted,  decently  veiled  phantom,  officially  recog- 
nised morning  and  evening,  also  on  Sundays;  but  by  no  means 
permitted  to  interfere  with  the  realities  of  life. 

The  soul  of  Lilamani  Sinclair  —  tremulous,  passionate,  and 
aspiring  —  was  a  living  flame,  that  lighted  her  thoughts,  her 
prayers,  her  desires,  and  burned  with  clearer  intensity  because 
her  religion  had  been  stripped  of  all  feastings  and  forms  and  cere- 
monies by  a  marriage  that  set  her  for  ever  outside  caste.  The 
inner  Reality  —  free  of  earth-bom  mists  and  clouds  —  none 
could  take  from  her.  God  manifest  through  Nature,  the  Divine 
Mother,  must  surely  accept  her  incense  and  sacrifice  of  the  spirit, 
since  no  other  was  permitted.  Her  father  had  given  her  that 
assurance;  and  to  it  she  clung,  as  a  child  in  a  crowd  clings  con- 
fidingly to  the  one  familiar  hand. 

She  was  none  the  less  eager  to  glean  all  she  could  assimilate  of 
the  religion  to  which  her  husband  conformed,  but  in  which,  it 
seemed,  he  did  not  ardently  believe.  Her  secret  pangs  on  this 
score  had  been  eased  a  Uttle  by  later  knowledge  that  it  was  he  who 
shielded  her  from  tacit  pressure  to  make  the  change  of  faith 
expected  of  her  by  certain  members  of  his  family.  Jane  —  out 
of  regard  for  his  wishes  —  had  refrained  from  frontal  attacks; 
but  more  than  one  flank  movement  had  been  executed  by  means 
of  the  Vicar  (a  second  cousin)  and  of  Aimt  Julia  —  a  mild, 
elder  Sinclair,  addicted  to  foreign  missions. 

She  had  not  told  Nevil  of  these  tentative  fishings  for  her  soul, 
lest  they  annoy  him  and  he  put  a  final  veto  on  them.  Being  well 
versed  m  their  Holy  Book,  she  wanted  to  try  and  fathom  their 
strange,  illogical  way  of  believing.  The  Christianity  of  Christ 
she  could  accept.  It  was  a  faith  of  the  heart  and  the  Ufe.  But  its 
crystallized  forms  and  dogmas  proved  a  stumbling-block  to  this 
embarrassing  slip  of  a  Hindu  girl,  who  cahnly  reminded  the 
Reverend  Jeffrey  Sale  that  the  creed  of  his  Church  had  not 
really  been  inspired  by  Christ,  but  dictated  by  Constantine  and 
the  Council  of  Nicea;  who  wanted  to  know  why,  in  so  great  a 
rehgion,  was  there  no  true  worship  of  woman;  no  recognising  — 
in  the  creative  principle  —  the  Divine  Motherhood  of  God? 
Finally,  she  had  scandalised  them  both  by  quarrelling  with 


44  FAR  TO  SEEK 

their  exclusive  belief  in  one  single  instance,  through  endless 
ages,  of  the  All-embracing  and  All-creating  revealed  in  terms  of 
human  life.  Was  not  that  same  idea  a  part  of  her  own  religion  — 
a  world-wide  doctrine  of  Indo-Aryan  origin?  Was  every  other 
revealing  false,  except  that  one  made  to  an  unbelieving  race  only 
two  thousand  years  ago?  To  her  —  imregenerate  but  not  un- 
believing —  the  message  of  Elrishna  seemed  to  strike  a  deeper 
note  of  promise.  "Wherever  irreligion  prevails  and  true  religion 
declines,  there  I  manifest  myself  in  a  human  form  to  establish 
righteousness  and  to  destroy  evil." 

So  she  questioned  and  argued,  in  no  spirit  of  irreverence, 
but  simply  with  the  logic  of  her  race,  and  the  sweet  reasonable- 
ness that  is  a  vital  element  of  the  Hindu  faith  at  its  best.  But, 
after  that  final  confession.  Aunt  Julia,  pained  and  bewildered, 
had  retired  from  the  field.  And  Lilamani,  flung  back  on  the 
God  within,  had  evolved  a  private  creed  of  her  own; — shed- 
ding the  husks  of  Christian  dogmas  and  the  grosser  superstitions 
of  her  own  faith,  and  weaving  together  the  mystical  elements 
that  are  the  life-blood  of  all  rehgious  beUefs. 

For  the  lamps  are  many,  but  the  flame  is  one. . . . 

Not  till  the  consummation  of  motherhood  had  lifted  her 
status  —  in  her  own  eyes  at  least  —  did  she  venture  to  speak 
intimately  with  Nevil  on  this  vital  matter.  Though  debarred 
from  sharing  of  sacred  ceremonies,  she  could  still  aspire  to  be 
true  Sahardamini  —  'spiritual  helpmate.'  But  to  that  end  he 
also  must  co-operate;  he  must  feel  the  deeper  need  .  .  . 

For  many  weeks  after  the  coming  of  Roy  she  had  hesitated, 
before  she  foimd  courage  to  adventure  farther  into  the  misty 
region  of  his  faith  or  unfaith  in  things  not  seen. 

"  K I  am  bothering  you  with  troublesome  questions  —  forgive. 
But,  in  our  Indian  way  of  marriage,  it  is  taught  that  without 
sharing  spiritual  life  there  cannot  arrive  true  union,"  she  had 
explained,  not  without  secret  tremors  lest  she  fail  to  evoke  full 
response.  And  what  such  failure  would  mean,  for  her,  she  could 
hardly  expect  him  to  understand. 

But  —  by  the  blessing  of  Sarasvati,  Giver  of  Wisdom  —  she 


;   THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  45 

had  succeeded,  beyond  hope,  m  dispelling  the  shy  reluctance  of 
his  race  to  talk  of  the  'big  little  things.'  Even  to-day  she  could 
recall  the  thrill  of  that  moment:  —  he,  kneeling  beside  the  great 
chair  in  his  studio  —  their  sanctuary;  she,  holding  the  warm 
bundle  of  new  life  against  her  breast. 

In  one  long  look  his  eyes  had  answered  her.  **  Nothing  short 
of  'true  union'  will  satisfy  me,"  he  had  said  with  a  quiet  serious- 
ness more  impressive  than  any  lover's  fervour.  "  God  knows  if 
I'm  worthy  to  enter  your  inner  shrine.  But  unwilling  —  never. 
In  the  'big  little  things'  you  are  pre-eminent.  I  am  simply  your 
extra  child  —  mother  of  my  son." 

That  tribute  was  her  charter  of  wifehood.  It  linked  love  with 
life;  it  set  her,  once  for  all,  beyond  the  lurking  fear  of  Jane; 
and  gave  her  courage  to  face  the  promised  visit  to  India,  when 
Roy  was  six  months  old,  to  present  him  to  his  grandfather,  Sir 
Lakshman  Singh. 

They  had  stayed  nearly  a  year;  a  wonderful  year  of  increasing 
knowledge,  of  fuller  awakening  .  .  .  and  yet .  .  .  ! 

The  ache  of  anticipation  had  been  too  poignant.  The  foolish 
half  hope  that  Mataji  might  relent,  and  sanctify  this  first  grand- 
child with  her  blessing,  was  —  in  the  nature  of  things  Oriental  — 
foredoomed  to  failure.  And  not  till  she  found  herself  back  among 
sights  and  sounds  hauntingly  familiar,  did  she  fully  awake  to 
the  changes  wrought  in  her  by  marriage  with  one  of  another 
race.  For,  if  she  had  profoundly  affected  Nevil's  personality,  he 
had  no  less  profoundly  influenced  her  sense  of  values  both  in  art 
and  in  life. 

She  had  also  to  reckon  with  the  insidious  process  of  idealising 
the  absent.  Indian  to  the  core,  she  was  deeply  imbued  with  the 
higher  tenets  of  Hindu  philosophy  —  that  lofty  spiritual  fabric 
woven  of  moonlight  and  mysticism,  of  logic  and  dreams.  But 
the  new  Lilamani,  of  Nevil's  making,  could  not  shut  her  eyes  to 
debasing  forms  of  worship,  to  subterranean  caverns  of  gross 
superstition,  and  lurking  demons  of  cruelty  and  despair.  While 
Nevil  was  imbibing  impressions  of  Indian  art,  Lilamani  was 
secretly  weighing  and  probing  the  Indian  spirit  that  inspired  it; 
sifting  the  grain  from  the  chaff  —  a  process  closely  linked  with 


46  FAR  TO  SEEK 

her  personal  life;  because,  for  India,  religion  and  life  are  one. 

But  no  shadow  had  clouded  the  joy  of  reunion  with  her 
father;  for  both  were  adepts  in  the  fine  art  of  loving,  the  touch- 
stone of  every  human  relation.  And  in  talk  with  him  she  could 
straighten  out  her  tangle  of  impressions,  her  secret  doubts  and 
fears. 

Also  there  had  been  Rama,  elder  brother,  studying  at  college 
and  loving  as  ever  to  the  sister  transformed  into  English  wife — 
yet  sister  still.  And  there  had  been  fuller  revelation  of  the  won- 
ders of  India,  in  their  travels  northward,  even  to  the  Himalayas, 
abode  of  Shiva,  where  Nevil  must  go  to  escape  the  heat  and  paint 
more  pictures  —  always  more  pictures.  Travelling  did  not  suit 
her.  She  was  too  innately  a  creature  of  shrines  and  sanctities. 
And  in  India  —  home  of  her  spirit  —  there  seemed  no  true  home 
for  her  any  more  .  .  . 

Five  years  later,  when  Roy  was  six  and  Christine  two  and  a 
half,  they  had  been  tempted  to  repeat  their  visit,  in  the  teeth  of 
stern  protests  from  Jane,  who  regarded  the  least  contact  with 
India  as  fatal  to  the  children  they  had  been  misguided  enough  to 
bring  into  the  world.  That  second  time,  things  had  been  easier; 
and  there  had  been  the  added  delight  of  Roy's  eager  interest; 
his  increasing  devotion  to  the  grandfather  whose  pride  and  joy 
in  him  rivalled  her  own. 

"In  this  little  man  we  have  the  hope  of  England  and  India!" 
he  would  say,  only  half  in  joke.  "With  East  and  West  in  his 
soul  —  the  best  of  each  —  he  will  cast  out  the  devils  of  conflict 
and  suspicion  and  draw  the  two  into  closer  understanding  of  one 
another." 

And,  in  secret,  Lilamani  dreamed  and  prayed  that  some  day 
.  .  .  possibly  .  .  .  who  could  tell  —  ? 

Yet,  still  there  persisted  the  sense  of  a  widening  gulf  between 
her  and  her  own  people;  leaving  her  doubtful  if  she  ever  wanted 
to  see  India  again.  The  spiritual  Unk  would  be  there  always;  for 
the  rest— was  she  not  wife  of  Nevil,  mother  of  Roy?  Ungrateful 
to  grieve  if  a  price  must  be  paid  for  such  supreme  good  fortune. 

For  herself  she  paid  it  willingly.  But  —  must  Roy  pay  also? 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      47 

And  in  what  fashion?  How  could  she  fail  to  imbue  him  with  the 
finest  ideals  of  her  race?  But  how  if  the  magnet  of  India  proved 
too  strong  —  ?  To  hold  the  scales  even  was  a  hard  task  for 
human  frailty.  And  the  time  of  her  absolute  dominion  was  so 
swiftly  slipping  away  from  her.  Always,  at  the  back  of  things, 
loomed  the  dread  shadow  of  school;  and  her  Eastern  soul  could 
not  accept  it  without  a  struggle.  Only  yesterday,  Nevil  had 
spoken  of  it  again  —  no  doubt  because  Jane  made  trouble  — 
saying  too  long  delay  would  be  imfair  for  Roy.  So  it  must  be  not 
later  than  September  year.  Just  only  fifteen  months!  Nevil  had 
told  her,  laughing,  it  would  not  banish  him  to  another  planet. 
But  it  would  plunge  him  into  a  world  apart  —  utterly  foreign  to 
her.  Of  its  dangers,  its  ideals,  its  mysterious  influences,  she  knew 
herself  abysmally  ignorant.  She  must  read.  She  must  try  and 
understand.  She  must  believe  Nevil  knew  best  —  she,  who  had 
not  enough  knowledge  and  too  much  love.  But  she  was  upheld 
by  no  sustaining  faith  in  this  English  fashion  of  school,  with  its 
decree  of  too  early  separation  from  the  supreme  influences  of 
mother  and  father  —  and  home  . .  . 

Later  on,  that  evening,  when  she  knelt  by  Roy's  bed  for  good- 
night talk  and  prayer,  his  arms  round  her  neck,  his  cool  cheek 
against  hers,  the  rebellion  she  could  not  altogether  stifle  surged 
up  in  her  afresh.  But  she  said  not  a  word. 

It  was  Roy  who  spoke,  as  if  he  had  read  her  heart. 

"Mummy,  Aunt  Jane's  been  talking  to  Daddy  agaui  about 
school.  Oh,  I  do  hate  her!"  (This  in  fervent  parenthesis.) 

She  only  tightened  her  hold  and  felt  a  small  quiver  run  through 
him. 

"Will  it  be  fearfully  soon?  Has  Daddy  told  you?" 

"Yes,  my  darling.  But  not  too  fearfully  soon,  because  he 
knows  I  don't  wish  that." 

"When?" 

"Not  till  next  year,  in  the  autumn.  September." 

"Oh,  you  good  —  goodest  Mummy!" 

He  clutched  her  in  an  ecstasy  of  relief.  For  him  a  full  year's 
respite  was  a  lifetime.  For  her  it  would  pass  like  a  watch  in  the 
night. 


Chapter  VI 

Thou  knowest  how,  alike,  to  give  and  take  gentleness  in  due  season 
..  .the  noble  temper  of  thy  sires  shineth  forth  in  thee  — 

Pindar 

It  was  a  clear  mild  Sunday  afternoon  of  November;  —  pale  sim- 
light,  pale  sky,  long  films  of  laminated  cloud.  From  the  base  of 
orange-tawny  cliffs  the  sands  swept  out  with  the  tide,  shining 
like  rippled  silk,  where  the  sea  had  uncovered  them;  and  sunlight 
was  spilled  in  pools  and  tiny  furrows:  the  sea  itself  grey-green 
and  very  still,  with  streaks  and  blotches  of  purple  shadow  flung 
by  no  visible  cloud.  The  beauty  and  the  mystery  of  them  fasci- 
nated Roy,  who  was  irresistibly  attracted  by  the  thing  he  could 
not  understand. 

He  was  sitting  alone,  near  the  edge  of  a  wooded  cliff;  troubles 
forgotten  for  the  moment;  imbibing  it  all .  .  . 

His  fifteen  months  of  reprieve  had  flown  faster  than  anyone 
could  have  believed.  It  was  over  —  everything  was  over.  No 
more  lessons  with  Tara  under  their  beech-tree.  No  more  happy 
hours  in  the  studio,  exploring  the  mysteries  of  'maths'  and 
Homer,  of  form  and  colour,  with  his  father,  who  seemed  to  know 
the  "Why"  of  everything.  Worse  than  all  —  no  more  Mummy, 
to  make  the  whole  world  beautiful  with  the  colours  of  her  saris 
and  the  loveliness  and  the  dearness  of  her  face  and  her  laugh  and 
her  voice. 

It  was  all  over.  He  was  at  school:  not  Coombe  Friars,  decreed 
by  Aunt  Jane;  but  St.  Rupert's,  because  the  Head  was  an  artist 
friend  of  his  father's,  and  would  take  a  personal  interest  in  Roy. 
.  But  the  Head,  however  kind,  was  a  distant  being;  and  the 
boys,  who  could  not  exactly  be  called  kind,  hemmed  him  in  on 
every  side.  His  shy,  sensitive  spirit  shrank  fastidiously  from  the 
strange  faces  and  bodies  that  herded  round  him,  at  meals,  at 
bedtime,  in  the  school-room,  on  the  play-ground;  some  curious 
and  friendly;  others  curious  and  hostile:  —  a  very  nightmare  of 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  49 

boys,  who  would  not  let  him  be.  And  the  more  they  hemmed 
him  in,  the  more  he  felt  utterly,  miserably  alone. 

As  the  endless  weeks  dragged  on,  there  were  interesting,  even 
exciting  moments  —  when  you  hardly  felt  the  ache.  But  other 
times  —  evenings  and  Sundays  —  it  came  back  sharper  than 
ever.  And  in  the  course  of  those  weeks  he  had  learnt  a  number  of 
things  not  included  in  the  school  curriculum.  He  had  learnt 
that  it  was  better  to  clench  your  teeth  and  not  cry  out  when  your 
ears  were  tweaked  or  your  arm  twisted,  or  an  unexpected  pin 
stuck  into  the  soft  part  of  your  leg.  But,  inside  him,  there 
burned  a  fire  of  rage  and  hate  unsuspected  by  his  tormentors.  It 
was  not  so  much  the  pain,  as  the  fact  that  they  seemed  to  enjoy 
hurting  him,  that  he  could  neither  understand  nor  forgive. 

And  by  now  he  felt  more  than  half  ashamed  of  those  early 
letters  to  his  mother,  pouring  out  his  misery  of  loneliness  and 
longing;  of  frantic  threats  to  run  away  or  jump  off  the  cliff  that 
had  so  strangely  failed  to  soften  his  father's  heart.  It  seemed  he 
knew  all  about  it.  He  had  been  through  it  himself.  But  Mummy 
did  not  know;  so  she  got  upset.  And  Mummy  must  not  be  upset, 
whatever  happened  to  Roy,  who  was  advised  to  'shut  his  teeth 
and  play  the  man '  and  he  would  feel  the  happier  for  it.  That  hard 
counsel  had  done  more  than  hurt  and  shame  him.  It  had  steadied 
him  at  the  moment  when  he  needed  it  most.  He  had  somehow 
managed  to  'shut  his  teeth  and  play  the  man';  and  he  was  the 
happier  for  it  already. 

So  his  faith  in  the  father  who  wouldn't  have  Mummy  upset 
had  increased  tenfold:  and  the  letter  he  had  nearly  torn  into 
little  bits  was  treasured,  like  a  talisman,  in  his  letter -case  — 
Tara's  parting  gift. 

It  was  on  the  Sunday  of  the  frantic  threats  that  he  had  wan- 
dered off  alone  and  discovered  the  Uttle  wood  on  the  cliff  in  all 
its  autumn  glory.  It  was  a  very  ordinary  wood  of  mixed  tfees 
with  a  group  of  tall  pines  at  one  end.  But  for  Roy  any  wood  was 
a  place  of  enchantment;  and  this  one  had  trees  all  leaning  one 
way,  with  an  air  of  crouching  and  hurrying  that  made  them  seem 
almost  alive;  and  the  moment  they  closed  on  him  he  was  back 


50  FAR  TO  SEEK 

in  his  old  familiar  world  of  fancy,  where  nothing  that  happened 
in  houses  mattered  at  all 

Strolling  on,  careless  and  content,  he  had  reached  a  gap,  where 
the  trees  fell  apart,  framing  blue  deeps  and  distances  of  sea  and 
sky.  For  some  reason  they  looked  more  blue,  more  beautiful,  so 
framed  than  seen  from  the  open  shore;  and  there  —  sitting  alone 
at  the  edge  of  all  things  —  he  had  felt  strangely  comforted;  had 
resolved  to  keep  his  discovery  a  profound  secret;  and  to  come 
there  every  Sunday  for  'sanctuary';  to  think  stories,  or  write 
poetry  —  a  very  private  joy. 

And  this  afternoon  was  the  loveliest  of  all.  If  only  the  shel- 
tering leaves  would  not  fall  so  fast! 

He  had  been  sitting  a  long  time,  pencil  in  hand,  waiting  for 
words  to  come;  when  suddenly  there  came  instead  the  very 
sounds  he  had  fled  from  —  the  talk  and  laughter  of  boys. 

They  seemed  horribly  close,  right  under  the  jutting  cliff;  and 
their  laughter  and  volleys  of  chaff  had  the  jeering  note  he  knew 
too  well.  Presently  his  ear  caught  a  high-pitched  voice  of  defi- 
ance, that  broke  off  and  fell  to  whimpering  —  a  sound  that  made 
Roy's  heart  beat  in  quick  jerks.  He  could  not  catch  what  they 
were  saying,  nor  see  what  they  were  doing.  He  did  not  want  to 
see.  He  hated  them  all. 

Listening  —  yet  dreading  to  hear  —  he  recognised  the  voice 
of  Bennet  Ma,,  known  —  strictly  out  of  earshot  —  as  Scab 
Major,  Is  any  school,  at  any  period,  quite  free  of  the  type?  It 
sounded  more  like  a  rough  than  an  ill-natured  rag;  but  the 
whimpering,  unseen  victim  seemed  to  have  no  kick  in  him:  and 
Roy  could  only  sit  there  wondering  helplessly  what  people  were 
made  of  who  found  it  amusing  to  hurt  and  frighten  other  people, 
who  had  done  them  no  harm 

And  now  the  voice  of  Scab  Major  rang  out  distmctly:  "After 
that  exhibition,  he'll  jolly  well  salaam  to  the  lot  of  us,  turn  about. 
If  he's  never  learnt,  we'll  show  him  how." 

The  word  'salaam'  enlightened  Roy.  Yesterday  there  had 
been  a  buzz  of  curiosity  over  the  belated  arrival  of  a  new  boy  — 
an  Indian  — weedy-looking  and  noticeably  dark,  with  a  sullen 
mouth  and  shifty  eyes.    Roy,  though  keenly  interested,  had 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  51 

not  felt  drawn  to  him;  and  a  new,  self-protective  shrinking  had 
withheld  him  from  profifering  advances  that  might  only  embroil 
them  both.  He  had  never  imagined  the  boy's  colour  would  tell 
against  him.  Was  that  what  it  meant  —  making  him  salaam? 

At  the  bare  suspicion,  shrinking  gave  place  to  rage.  Beasts 
they  were!  If  only  he  could  take  a  flying  leap  on  to  them,  or  roll 
a  few  stones  down  and  scare  them  out  of  their  wits.  But  he  could 
not  stir  without  giving  away  his  secret.  And  while  he  hesitated, 
his  eye  absently  followed  a  moving  speck  far  ofif  on  the  shining 
sand. 

It  was  a  boy  on  a  bicycle  —  hatless,  head  in  air,  sitting  very 
erect.  There  was  only  one  boy  at  St.  Rupert's  who  carried  his 
head  that  way  and  sat  his  bicycle  just  so.  From  the  first  Roy 
had  watched  him  covertly,  with  devout  admiration;  longing  to 
know  him,  too  shy  to  ask  his  name.  But  so  far  the  godlike  one, 
surrounded  by  friends,  had  hardly  seemed  aware  of  his  existence. 

Swiftly,  he  came  nearer;  and  with  a  sudden  leap  of  his  pulses, 
Roy  knew  he  had  seen  — 

Springing  off  his  bicycle,  he  flung  himself  into  the  little  group 
of  tormentors,  hitting  out  vigorously  right  and  left.  Sheer  sur- 
prise and  the  fury  of  his  onslaught  gave  him  the  advantage;  and 
the  guilty  consciences  of  the  less  aggressive  were  his  allies.  .  .  . 

This  was  not  cruelty,  but  championship:  and  Roy,  determined 
to  see  all,  lay  flat  on  his  front  —  danger  of  discovery  forgotten — 
grabbing  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  that  curved  inward,  exulting  in  the 
triumph  of  the  deliverer  and  the  scattering  of  the  foe. 

Bennet  Major,  one  of  the  first  to  break  away,  saw  and  seized 
the  prostrate  bicycle.  At  that  Roy  lost  his  head ;  leaned  perilously 
over  and  shouted  a  warning,  "Hi!  Look  out!" 

But  the  Scab  was  off  like  the  wind:  and  the  rest,  startled  by  a 
voice  from  nowhere,  hurriedly  followed  suit. 

Roy,  raising  himself  on  his  hands,  gave  a  convulsive  wriggle 
of  joy  —  that  changed  midway,  into  a  backward  jerk  . .  r'too 
late! 

The  crumbling  edge  was  giving  way  under  his  hands,  under  his 
body.  No  time  for  terror.  His  jerk  gave  the  finishing  touch  .  .  . 

Down  he  went  —  over  and  over;  his  Sunday  hat  bouncing 


52  FAR  TO  SEEK 

gaily  on  before;  nothing  to  clutch  anywhere;  but  by  good  luck, 
no  stones  — 

The  thought  flashed  through  him,  "I'm  killed!"  And  five 
seconds  later  he  rolled  —  breathless  and  sputtering  —  to  the 
feet  of  the  two  remaining  boys,  who  had  spnmg  back  just  in 
time  to  escape  the  dusty  avalanche. 

There  he  lay  —  shaken  and  stupefied  —  his  eyes  and  mouth 
full  of  sand;  and  his  pockets  and  boots  and  the  inside  of  his 
shirt.  Nothing  seemed  to  be  broken.  And  he  wasn't  killed! 

Someone  was  flicking  the  sand  from  his  face;  and  he  opened  his 
eyes  to  find  the  deliverer  kneeling  beside  him.  amazed  and  con- 
cerned. 

"  I  say,  that  was  a  pretty  average  tumble!  What  sort  of  a  lark 
were  you  up  to?  Are  you  hurt?" 

"Only  biunped  a  bit,"  Roy  panted,  still  out  of  breath.  "I 
spec  it  startled  you.  I'm  sorry." 

The  bareheaded  one  laughed.  "You  startled  the  Scab's 
minions  a  jolly  sight  more.  Cleared  the  course!  And  a  rare  good 
riddance  —  eh,  Chandranath?  " 

To  that  friendly  appeal  the  Indian  boy  vouchsafed  a  muttered 
assent.  He  stood  a  little  apart,  looking  sullen,  irresolute,  and 
thoroughly  uncomfortable,  the  marks  of  tears  still  on  his  face. 

"Thanks  veree  much.  I  am  going  now,"  he  blurted  out 
abruptly;  and  Roy  felt  quite  cross  with  hun.  Pity  had  evaporated. 
But  the  other  boy's  good-humour  seemed  unassailable. 

"If  you're  not  in  a  frantic  hurry,  we  can  go  back  together." 

Chandranath  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  wish  —  to  go  back. 
I  would  rather  —  be  by  myself." 

"As  you  please.  Those  cads  won't  bother  you  again." 

"If  they  do  —  I  will  kill  them." 

He  made  that  surprising  announcement  in  a  fierce  whisper. 
It  was  the  voice  of  another  race. 

And  the  English  boy's  answer  was  equally  true  to  type. 
"Right  you  are.  Give  me  fair  warning  and  I'll  lend  a  hand." 

Chandranath  stared  blankly.  "But  — they  are  of  your 
country,"  he  said;  and  turning,  walked  ofi  in  the  opposite 
direction. 


■  THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  '  53 

"A  queer  fish,"  Roy's  new  friend  remarked.  "Quite  out  of 
water  here.  Awfully  stupid  sending  him  to  an  English  school." 

"Why?"  asked  Roy.  He  was  sitting  up  and  dusting  himself 
generally. 

**0h,  because — "  the  boy  frowned  pensively  at  the  horizon. 
"That  takes  some  explaining,  if  you  don't  know  India." 

"D'you  know  India?"  Roy  could  not  keep  the  eagerness  out 
of  his  tone. 

"Rather.  I  was  bom  there.  North- West  Frontier.  My 
name's  Desmond.  We  all  belong  there.  I  was  out  till  seven  and  a 
half  and  I'll  go  back  like  a  bird  the  minute  my  schooling's  over." 

He  spoke  very  quietly;  but  under  the  quietness  Roy  guessed 
there  was  purpose  —  there  was  fire.  This  boy  knew  exactly  what 
he  meant  to  do  in  his  grown-up  life  —  that  large,  vague  word 
crowded  with  exciting  possibilities.  He  stood  there,  straight  as 
an  arrow,  looking  out  to  sea;  and  straight  as  an  arrow  he  would 
make  for  his  target  when  school  and  college  let  go  their  hold. 
Something  of  this  Roy  dimly  apprehended:  and  his  interest  was 
tinged  with  envy.  If  they  all  'belonged,'  were  they  Indians,  he 
wondered;  and  decided  not,  because  of  Desmond's  coppery 
brown  hair.  He  wanted  to  understand  —  to  hear  more.  He 
almost  forgot  he  was  at  school. 

"We  belong  too  — "  he  ventured  shyly;  and  Desmond  turned 
with  a  kindling  eye. 

"Good  egg!  What  Province?" 
•    "Rajputana." 

"Oh  —  miles  away.  Which  service?" 

Roy  looked  puzzled.  "I  —  don't  know.  You  see  —  it's  my 
mother  —  that  belongs.  My  grandfather's  a  Minister  in  a  big 
Native  State  out  there." 

"Oh  — I  say!" 

There  was  a  shadow  of  change  in  his  tone.  His  direct  look  was 
a  little  embarrassing.  He  seemed  to  be  considering  Roy  in  a  new 
Ught. 

"I  —  I  wouldn't  have  thought  it,"  he  said;  and  added  a  shade 
too  quickly:  "We  don't  belong  —  that  way.  We're  all  Anglo- 
Indians  —  Frontier  Force."  (Clearly  a  fine  thing  to  be,  thought 


54  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Roy,  mystified,  but  impressed.)  "Is  your  father  in  the  Polit- 
ical?" 

More  conundrimis!  But,  warmed  by  Desmond's  friendliness, 
Roy  grew  bolder. 

"  No.  He  hates  politics.  He's  just  —  just  a  gentleman." 

Desmond  burst  out  laughing. 

*' Top-hole!  He  couldn't  do  better  than  that.  But  —  if  your 
mother  —  he  must  have  been  in  India?  " 

"Afterwards  —  they  went.  I've  been  too.  He  found  Mother  in 
France.  He  painted  her.  He's  a  rather  famous  painter." 

"What  name?" 

"Sinclair." 

"Oh,  I've  heard  of  him.  And  your  people  are  always  at  home. 
Lucky  beggar!"  He  was  silent  watching  Roy  unlace  his  boot. 
Then  he  asked  suddenly  in  a  voice  that  tried  to  sound  casual: 
"  I  say  —  have  you  told  any  of  the  other  boys  —  about  India  — 
and  your  mother?" 

"No  —  why?  Is  there  any  harm? "  Roy  was  on  the  defensive 
at  once. 

"Well — no.  With  the  right  sort,  it  wouldn't  make  a  scrap  of 
difference.  But  you  can  see  what  some  of  'em  are  like  —  Bennet 
Ma.  and  his  crew.  Making  a  dead  set  at  that  poor  blighter,  just 
because  he  isn't  their  colour  — " 

Roy  started.  "Was  it  only  because  of  that?"  he  asked  with 
emphasis. 

"  'Course  it  was.  Plain  as  a  pike-staff.  I  suppose  they'd  bullied 
him  into  cheeking  them.  And  they  were  hacking  him  on  to  his 
knees;  forcing  him  to  salaam."  Twin  sparks  sprang  alight  in  his 
eyes.  "  That  sort  of  thing  —  makes  me  feel  like  a  k-ettle  on  the 
boil.  Wish  I'd  had  a  boiling  kettle  to  empty  over  Bennet." 

" So  do  I  —  the  mean  Scab!  And  he's  pinched  your  bicycle." 

"No  fear!  You  bet  we'll  find  it  round  the  corner.  He  wouldn't 
have  the  spunk  to  go  right  off  with  it.  But  look  here  —  what  I 
mean  is"  —  hesitant,  yet  resolute,  he  harked  back  to  the  main 
point — "  if  any  of  that  lot  came  to  know — about  Indiaand — your 
mother,  well — they're  proper  skunks,  some  of  them.  They  might 
say  things  that  would  make  you  feel  like  a  kettle  on  the  boil." 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  55 

*'If  they  did  —  I  would  kill  them." 

Roy  stated  the  fact  with  quiet  deliberation,  and  without  noticing 
that  he  had  repeated  the  very  words  of  the  vanished  victim. 

This  time  Desmond  did  not  treat  it  as  a  joke. 

"'Course  you  would,"  he  agreed  gravely.  "And  that  sort  of 
shindy's  no  good  for  the  school.  So  I  thought  —  better  give  you 
the  tip— " 

"I  —  see,"  Roy  said  in  a  low  voice,  without  looking  up.  He 
did  not  see;  but  he  began  dimly  to  guess  at  a  so  far  imknown  and 
unsuspected  state  of  mind. 

Desmond  sat  silent  while  he  shook  the  sand  out  of  his  boots. 
Then  he  remarked  in  an  easier  tone;  "Quite  sure  there's  no 
damage?  " 

Roy,  now  on  his  feet,  found  his  left  leg  uncomfortably  stiff  — 
and  said  so. 

"  Bad  luck!  We  must  walk  it  off.  I'll  knead  it  first,  if  you  like. 
I've  seen  them  do  it  on  the  Border." 

His  unskilled  manipulation  hurt  a  good  deal;  but  Roy,  over- 
come with  gratitude,  gave  no  sign. 

When  it  was  over  they  set  out  for  then:  homeward  tramp,  and 
found  the  bicycle,  as  Desmond  had  prophesied.  He  refused  to 
ride  on;  and  Roy  limped  beside  him  feeling  absurdly  elated. 
The  godlike  one  had  come  to  earth,  indeed!  Only  the  remark 
about  his  mother  still  rankled;  but  he  felt  shy  of  returning  to  the 
subject.   The  change  in  Desmond's  manner  had  puzzled  him. 
Roy  glanced  admiringly  at  his  profile  —  the  straight  nose,  the 
long  mouth  that  smiled  so  readily,  the  resolute  chin,  a  Uttle  in  the 
air.  A  clear  case  of  love  at  sight,  schoolboy  love;  a  passmg  phase 
of  human  efflorescence;  yet,  in  passing,  it  will  sometimes  leave  a 
mark  for  life.  Roy,  instinctively  a  hero-worshipper,  registered  a 
new  ambition  —  to  become  Desmond's  friend. 
Presently,  as  if  aware  of  his  thought,  Desmond  spoke. 
"  I  say,  Sinclair,  how  old  are  you?  You  seem  less  of  a  kid  thain 
most  of  the  new  lot." 
"I'm  ten  and  a  half,"  said  Roy,  wishing  it  was  eleven. 
"Bit  late  for   starting.   I'm  twelve.    Going  on  to  Marl- 
borough next  year." 


56  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Roy  felt  crushed.  In  a  year  he  would  be  gone!  Still  —  there 
were  three  more  terms:  and  he  would  go  on  to  Marlborough 
too.  He  would  insist. 

"Does  Scab  Ma.  bother  you  much?"  Desmond  asked  with  a 
friendly  twinkle. 

"Now  and  then  —  nothing  to  fuss  about." 

Roy's  nonchalance,  though  plucky,  was  not  quite  convincing. 

" Righto!  I'll  head  him  off.  He  isn't  keen  to  knock  up  against 
me."  A  pause.  "How  about  sitting  down  my  way  at  meals? 
You  don't  look  awfully  gay  at  your  end." 

"I'm  not.  It  would  be  ripping." 

"Good.  We'll  hang  together,  eh?  Because  of  India;  because 
we  both  belong  —  in  a  different  way.  And  we'll  stick  up  for  that 
miserable  Uttle  devil  Chandranath." 

"Yes— we  will."  (The  glory  of  that  'we.')  "All  the  same  — 
I  don't  much  like  the  look  of  him." 

"No  more  don't  I.  He's  the  wrong 70^.^  He  won't  stay  long  — 
you'll  see.  But  still  —  he  shan't  be  bullied  by  Scabs,  because  he's 
not  the  same  colour  outside.  You  see  that  sort  of  thing  in  India 
too.  My  father's  fearfully  down  on  it,  because  it  makes  more  bad 
blood  than  anything;  I've  heard  him  say  that  it's  just  the  blight- 
ers who  buck  about  *  the  superior  race '  who  do  all  the  damage 
with  their  inferior  manners.  Rather  neat  —  eh?  " 

Roy  glowed.  "Your  father  must  be  a  splendid  sort.  Is  he  a 
soldier?" 

"  Rather/  He's  a  V.C.  He  got  it  saving  a  Jemadar  —  a  Native 
Officer." 

Roy  caught  his  breath. 

"  I  would  awfully  like  to  hear  how  — " 

Desmond  told  him  how  .  .  . 

It  was  a  wonderful  walk.  By  the  end  of  it  Roy  no  longer  felt  a 
lonely  atom  in  a  strange  world.  He  had  found  something  better 
than  his  Sanctuary  —  he  had  found  a  friend  .  .  . 

Looking  back,  long  afterwards,  he  recognised  that  Simday  as 
the  turning-point .  .  . 

Later  in  the  evening  he  poured  it  all  out  to  his  mother  in  four 
closely  written  sheets. 

»  Caste. 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      57 

But  not  a  word  about  herself,  or  Desmond's  friendly  warning, 
which  still  puzzled  him.  He  worried  over  it  a  little  before  he  fell 
asleep.  It  was  the  very  first  hint  —  given,  in  all  friendliness  — 
that  the  mere  fact  of  having  an  Indian  mother  might  go  against 
you, in  some  people's  eyes.  Not  the  right  ones,  of  course;  but  still 
—  in  the  nature  of  things  —  he  couldn't  make  it  out.  That  would 
come  later. 

At  the  time  its  only  effect  was  to  deepen  his  private  satisfaction 
at  having  hammered  Joe  Bradley;  to  quicken  his  attitude  of 
championship  towards  his  mother  and  towards  India,  till  ulti- 
mately the  glow  of  his  fervent  devotion  fused  them  both  into  one 
dominant  idea. 


Chapter  VII 

Be  it  is  —  the  Innermost  One  —  who  awakens 
my  being  with,  his  deep  hidden  iottches. 

Rabindranatii  Tagoek 

LilXmani  read  and  re-read  that  letter  curled  among  her  cushions 
in  the  deep  window-seat  of  the  studio,  a  tower  room  with  tall 
windows  looking  north,  over  jagged  pine-tops,  to  the  open  moor. 

And  while  she  read,  Nevil  stood  at  his  easel,  seizing  and  re- 
cording the  unconscious  grace  of  her  pose,  the  rapt  stillness  of 
her  face.  He  was  never  weary  of  painting  her  —  never  quite 
satisfied  with  the  result;  always  within  an  ace  of  achieving  the 
one  perfect  picture  that  should  immortalise  a  gleam  from  her 
inner,  uncaptured  loveliness  —  the  essence  of  personality  that 
eternally  foils  the  sense,  while  it  sways  the  spirit.  Impossible,  of 
course.  One  might  as  well  try  to  catch  the  fragrance  of  a  rose, 
the  bloom  of  an  April  dawn,  or  any  other  fragment  of  the  world's 
unseizable  beauty.  But  there  remained  the  joy  of  pursuing  — 
and  pursuing,  not  achieving,  is  the  salt  of  life. 

Something  in  her  pose,  her  absorption,  —  lips  just  parted, 
shadow  of  lashes  on  her  cheek,  primrose-pale  sari  against  the 
green  velvet  curtain,  —  had  fired  him,  lit  a  spark  of  inspka- 
tion  .  . . 

If  he  made  a  decent  thing  of  it,  Roy  should  have  it  for  a 
companion  to  the  Antibes  pastel:  her  two  aspects  —  wife  of 
Nevil;  mother  of  Roy.  Later  on,  the  boy  would  understand. 
His  star  stood  higher  than  usual,  just  then.  For  Nevil  had 
detested  writing  that  letter  of  rebuke;  had  not  dared  show  it  to 
his  wife;  and  Roy  had  taken  it  like  a  man.  No  more  lamenta- 
tions, so  far.  Certainly  not  on  this  occasion,  judging  by  her  rapt 
look,  her  complete  absorption  that  gave  him  the  chance  of 
catching  her  unawares. 

For,  in  truth,  she  was  unaware;  lost  to  everything  but  the  joy 
of  contact  with  her  son.  The  pang  of  parting  had  been  dulled  to 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM      59 

a  hidden  ache;  but  always  the  blank  was  there;  however  richly 
filled  with  other  claims  on  heart  and  spirit.  A  larger  schoolroom 
now:  and  Nevil,  with  his  new  Eastern  picture  on  hand,  makmg 
constant  demands  on  her  — as  usual  — in  the  initial  stages; 
till  the  subject  of  the  moment  ecHpsed  everything,  everyone — 
sometimes  even  herself.  Her  early  twinges  of  jealousy,  during 
that  phase,  rarely  troubled  her  now.  As  wife  and  mother,  she 
better  understood  the  dual  allegiance  —  the  twofold  strain  of  the 
creative  process,  whether  m  spirit  or  flesh.  Now  she  knew  that, 
when  art  seemed  most  exclusively  to  claim  him,  his  need  was 
greater,  not  less,  for  her  woman's  gift  of  self-eflfacmg  tenderness, 
of  personal  physical  service.  And  through  deeper  love  came 
clearer  insight.  She  saw  Nevil  —  the  artist  —  as  a  veritable 
Yogi,  impelled  to  ceaseless  striving  for  mastery  of  himself,  his 
atmosphere,  his  medium:  saw  her  wifely  love  and  service  as  the 
life-giving  impetus  without  which  he  might  flag  and  never  reach 
the  heights. 

Women  of  wide  social  and  intellectual  activities  might  raise 
perplexed  eyebrows  over  her  secluded  life,  still  instinct  with  the 
'spirit  of  purdah:  She  found  the  daily  pattern  of  it  woven  with 
threads  so  richly  varied  that  to  cherish  a  hidden  grief  seemed 
base  ingratitude.  Yet  always  —  at  the  back  of  things  —  lurked 
her  foolish  mother  anxieties,  her  deep,  unuttered  longing.  And 
letters  were  cold  comfort.  In  the  first  weeks  she  had  come  to 
dread  opening  them.  Always  the  bitter  cry  of  lonelmess  and 
longing  for  home.  What  was  it  Nevil  had  said  to  make  so  sur- 
prismg  a  change?  Craving  to  know,  she  feared  to  ask;  and  more 
than  suspected  that  he  blessed  her  for  refraining. 

And  now  came  this  long,  exultant  letter,  written  in  the  first 
flush  of  his  great  discovery  — 

And  as  she  read  on,  she  became  aware  of  a  new  sensation. 
This  was  another  kind  of  Roy.  On  the  first  page  he  was  pouring 
out  his  heart  in  careless,  unformed  phrases.  By  the  end  of  the 
second,  his  tale  had  hold  of  him;  he  was  enjoying— perhaps 
unawares  —  the  exercise  of  a  newly  awakened  gift.  And,  looking 
up,  at  last,  to  share  it  with  Nevil,  she  caught  him  in  the  act  of 
tracing  a  curve  of  her  sari  in  mid-air. 


6o  FAR  TO  SEEK 

With  a  playful  movement  —  pure  Eastern  —  she  drew  it  half 
over  her  face. 

"Oh,  Nevil  —  you  wicked!  I  never  guessed  — " 

"That  was  the  beauty  of  it!  I  make  my  salaams  to  Roy! 
What's  he  been  up  to  that  it  takes  four  sheets  to  confess?  " 

"Not  confessing.  Telling  a  tale.  It  will  surprise  you." 

"Let's  have  a  look." 

She  gave  him  the  letter;  and  while  he  read  it,  she  intently 
watched  his  face.  "  The  boy'U  write  —  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  was 
his  verdict,  handing  back  her  treasure,  with  an  odd  half  smile  in 
his  eyes. 

"  And  you  were  hoping — he  would  paint?  "  she  said,  answering 
his  thought. 

"  Yes,  but  —  scarcely  expecting.  Sons  are  a  perverse  genera- 
tion. I'm  glad  he's  tumbled  on  his  feet  and  foimd  a  pal." 

"Yes.  It  is  good." 

"We'll  invite  young  Desmond  here  and  inspect  him,  eh?" 

"Yes  — we  will." 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  considering  her  profile  —  humanly, 
not  artistically.  "Jealous,  is  she?  The  hundredth  part  of  a 
fraction?" 

"  Just  so  much ! "  she  admitted  in  her  small  voice.  "  But  under- 
neath —  I  am  glad.  A  fine  fellow.  We  will  ask  him  —  later." 

The  projected  invitation  proved  superfluous.  Roy's  next 
letter  informed  them  that  after  Christmas  Desmond  was  coming 
for  'ten  whole  days.'  He  had  promised. 

He  kept  his  promise.  After  Christmas  he  came  and  saw  — 
and  conquered.  At  first  they  were  all  inclined  to  be  secretly 
critical  of  the  new  element  that  looked  as  if  it  had  '  come  to  stay.' 
For  Roy's  discreetly  repressed  admiration  was  clear  as  print  to 
those  who  could  read  him  hke  an  open  page.  And,  on  the 
whole,  it  was  not  surprising,  as  they  were  gradually  persuaded  to 
admit.  There  was  more  in  Lance  Desmond  than  mere  grace 
and  good  looks,  manliness  and  a  ready  himiour.  In  him  two 
remarkable  personalities  were  blended  with  a  peculiarly  happy 
result. 

They  discovered,  incidentally,  his  wonderful  gift  of  music. 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  6i 

"Got  it  off  my  mother,"  was  his  modest  disclaimer.  "She  and 
my  sister  are  simply  top-hole.  We  do  lots  of  it  together." 

His  intelligent  delight  in  pictures  and  books  commended  him 
to  Nevil;  but,  at  twelve  and  a  half,  skating,  tramping,  and 
hockey  matches  held  the  field.  Sometimes  —  when  it  was  skating 
—  Tara  and  Chris  went  with  them.  But  they  made  it  clear,  quite 
unaggressively,  that  the  real  point  was  to  go  alone. 

Day  after  day,  from  her  window,  Lilamani  watched  them  go, 
across  the  radiant  sweep  of  snow-covered  lawn;  and,  for  the  first 
time,  where  Roy  was  concerned,  she  knew  the  prick  of  jealousy; 
a  foretaste  of  the  day  when  her  love  would  no  longer  fill  his  life. 
Ashamed  of  her  own  weakness,  she  kept  it  hid  —  or  fancied  she 
did  so;  but  the  little  stabbing  ache  persisted,  in  spite  of  shame 
and  stoic  resolves. 

Tara  and  Christine  also  knew  the  horrid  pang;  but  they 
knew  neither  shame  nor  stoic  resolves.  Roy  mustn't  suspect,  of 
course;  but  they  told  each  other,  in  strictest  confidence,  that  they 
hated  Desmond;  firmly  believing  they  spoke  the  truth.  So  it  was 
particularly  vexatious  to  find  that  the  moment  he  favoured  them 
with  the  most  casual  attention,  they  were  at  his  feet. 

But  that  was  their  own  private  affair.  Whether  they  resented, 
or  whether  they  adored,  the  boys  remained  entirely  unconcerned, 
entirely  absorbed  in  each  other.  It  was  Desmond's  opinion  of 
them  that  mattered  supremely  to  Roy;  in  particular  —  Des- 
mond's opinion  of  his  mother.  After  those  first  puzzling  remarks 
and  silences,  Roy  had  held  his  peace;  had  not  even  shown  Des- 
mond her  picture.  His  invitation  accepted,  he  had  simply 
waited,  in  transcendent  faith,  for  the  moment  of  revelation. 
And  now  he  had  his  reward. 

After  a  prelude  of  mutual  embarrassment.  Lance  had  suc- 
cumbed frankly  to  Lady  Sinclair's  unexpected  charm  and  her 
shy,  irresistible  overtures  to  friendship:  —  so  frankly,  that  he 
was  able,  now,  to  hint  at  his  earlier  perplexity.  .        - 

He  had  seen  no  Indian  women,  he  explained,  except  in  ba- 
zaars or  in  service;  so  he  couldn't  quite  understand,  until  his 
own  mother  made  things  clearer  to  him  and  recommended  him 
to  go  and  see  for  himself.  Now  he  had  seen  —  and  succumbed: 


62  FAR  TO  SEEK 

and  Roy's  private  triumph  was  unalloyed.  Second  only  to  that 
triumph,  the  really  important  outcome  of  their  glorious  Ten 
Days  was  that  with  Desmond's  help,  Roy  fought  the  battle  of 
going  on  to  Marlborough  when  he  was  twelve  —  and  won  .  .  . 

It  was  horrid  leaving  them  all  again;  but  it  did  make  a  won- 
derful difference  knowing  there  was  Desmond  at  the  other  end; 
and  together  they  would  champion  that  doubtfully  grateful 
victim  —  Chandranath.  Their  zeal  proved  superfluous.  Chand- 
ranath  never  reappeared  at  St.  Rupert's.  Perhaps  his  people 
had  arrived  at  Desmond's  conclusion  that  he  was  not  the  right 
jdt  for  an  English  School.  In  any  case  his  disappearance  was  a 
rehef  —  and  Roy  promptly  forgot  all  about  him. 

Years  later  —  many  years  later  —  he  was  to  remember. 

After  St.  Rupert's  —  Marlborough — and  just  at  first  he  hated 
it,  as  he  had  hated  St.  Rupert's,  though  in  a  different  fashion. 
Here  it  was  not  so  much  the  longing  for  home,  as  a  vague  yet 
deepening  sense  that,  in  some  vital  way  —  not  yet  fully  under- 
stood —  he  was  'different '  from  his  fellows.  But  once  he  reached 
the  haven  of  Desmond's  study,  the  good  days  began  in  earnest. 
He  could  read  and  dream  along  his  own  lines.  He  could  scribble 
verse  or  prose,  when  he  ought  to  have  been  preparing  quite  other 
things;  and  the  results,  good  or  bad,  went  straight  to  his  mother. 

Needless  to  say,  she  found  them  all  radiant  with  promise; 
here  and  there  a  flicker  of  the  divine  spark:  and,  throughout  the 
years  of  transition,  the  locked  and  treasured  book  that  held  them 
was  the  sheet  anchor  to  which  she  clung,  till  Roy,  the  man, 
should  be  forged  out  of  the  backslidings  and  renewals  incidental 
to  that  time  of  stress  and  becoming.  What  matter  their  young 
imperfections,  when  —  for  her  —  it  was  as  if  Roy's  spirit  reached 
out  across  the  dividing  distance  and  touched  her  own.  In  the 
days  when  he  seemed  most  withdrawn,  that  dear  illusion  was  her 
secret  bread. 

And  all  the  while,  subconsciously,  she  was  drawing  nearer  to 
the  given  moment  of  religious  surrender  that  would  complete 
the  spiritual  link  with  husband  and  children.  As  the  babies  grew 


THE  GLORY  AND  THE  DREAM  63 

older,  she  saw,  with  increasing  clearness,  the  increasing  difficulty 
of  her  position.  Frankly,  she  had  tried  not  to  see  it.  Her  free 
spirit,  havmg  reached  the  Reality  that  transcends  all  forms, 
shrank  from  returning  to  the  dogmas,  the  hmitations  of  a  definite 
creed.  In  her  eyes,  it  seemed  a  step  backward.  Belief  in  a  per- 
sonal God,  above  and  beyond  the  Universe,  was  reckoned  by  her 
own  faith  a  primitive  conception;  a  stage  on  the  way  to  that 
Ultima  Thule  where  the  soul  of  man  perceives  its  own  inherent 
divinity,  and  the  knower  becomes  the  known,  as  notes  become 
music,  as  the  river  becomes  the  sea.  It  was  this  that  troubled  her 
logical  mind  and  delayed  decision. 

But  the  final  deciding  factor  —  though  he  knew  it  not  —  was 
Roy.  By  reason  of  her  own  share  in  him,  religion  would  probably 
mean  more  to  him  than  to  Nevil.  For  his  sake  —  for  the  sake  of 
Christine  and  Tara  and  the  babies,  fast  sprouting  into  boys  — 
she  felt  at  last  irresistibly  constrained  to  accept,  with  certain 
mental  reservations,  the  tenets  of  her  husband's  creed;  and  so 
quaUfy  herself  to  share  with  them  all  its  outward  and  visible 
forms,  as  already  she  shared  its  inward  and  spiritual  grace. 

The  conviction  sprang  from  no  mere  sentimental  impulse. 
It  was  the  unhurried  work  of  years.  So  —  when  there  arose  the 
question  of  Roy's  confirmation,  and  Tara's,  at  the  same  Easter- 
tide, conviction  blossomed  into  decision,  as  simply  and  naturally 
as  the  bud  of  a  flower  opens  to  the  sun.  That  is  the  supreme 
virtue  of  changes  not  imposed  from  without.  When  the  given 
moment  came  —  the  inner  resolve  was  there. 

Quite  simply  she  spoke  of  it  to  Nevil,  one  evening  over  the 
studio  fire.  And  behold,  a  surprise  awaited  her.  She  had  rarely 
seen  him  more  deeply  moved.  From  the  time  of  Roy's  coming, 
he  told  her,  he  had  cherished  the  hidden  hope. 

"  Yet  too  seldom  you  have  spoken  of  such  things  —  why?  "  she 
asked,  moved  in  her  turn  and  amazed. 

"  Because  from  the  first  I  made  up  my  mind  I  would  not  have 
it,  except  in  your  own  way  and  in  your  own  time.  I  knew  the 
essence  of  it  was  m  you.  For  the  rest  —  I  preferred  to  wait  till 
you  were  ready  —  Sita  Devi." 

"Nevil  —  lord  of  me  I"  She  slipped  to  her  knees  beside  him. 


64  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"  I  am  ready.  But,  oh,  you  wicked,  how  could  I  know  that  all  the 
time  you  were  caring  that  much  in  your  secret  heart!" 

He  gathered  her  close  and  said  not  a  word. 

So  the  great  matter  was  settled,  with  no  outward  fuss,  or 
formalities.  She  would  be  baptized  before  Roy  came  home  for 
the  Easter  holidays  and  his  confirmation. 

**  But  not  here  —  not  Mr.  Sale,"  she  pleaded.  ''Let  us  go  away 
quietly  to  London  —  we  two.  Let  it  be  in  that  great  churdi 
where  first  the  thought  was  born  in  my  heart  that  some  day  .  .  . 
this  might  be." 

He  could  refuse  her  nothing.  Jeffrey  might  feel  aggrieved, 
when  he  knew.  But  after  all  —  this  was  their  own  affair.  Time 
enough  afterwards  to  let  in  the  world  and  its  thronging  notes  of 
exclamation. 

Roy  was  told  when  he  came  home.  For  imparting  such  inti- 
mate news,  she  craved  the  response  of  his  living  self.  And  if 
Nevil's  satisfaction  struck  a  deeper  note,  it  was  simply  that  Roy 
was  very  young  and  had  always  included  her  Hindu-ness  in  the 
natural  order  of  things. 

Wonderful  days!  Preparing  the  children,  with  Helen's  help; 
preparing  herself,  in  the  quiet  of  her  'House  of  Gods'  —  a  tiny 
room  above  the  studio  —  in  much  the  same  spirit  as  she  had 
prepared  for  the  great  consecration  of  marriage,  with  vigil  and 
meditation  and  unobtrusive  fasting  —  noted  by  Nevil,  though 
he  said  no  word. 

Crowning  wonder  of  all,  that  golden  Easter  morning  of  her 
first  Communion  with  Roy  and  Tara,  with  Nevil  and  Helen:  — 
unfolding  of  heart  and  spirit,  of  leaf  and  blossom;  dual  miracle  of 
a  world  new-made. ... 


END  as  PHASE  I 


PHASE  II 
THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM 


PHASE  II 

THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM 

Chapter  I 

Youth  is  lifted  on  wings  of  his  strong  hope  and 
soaring  valour;  for  his  thoughts  are  above  riches. 

Pindar's  Odes 

Oxford  on  a  clear,  still  evening  of  Jiine:  silver  reaches  of  Isis  and 
Cher;  meadows  pied  with  moon  daisies  and  clover,  and  the  rose 
madder  bloom  of  ripe  grasses;  the  trill  of  unseen  birds  tuning  up 
for  evensong;  the  passing  and  repassing  of  boats  and  canoes  and 
pimts,  gay  with  cushions  and  summer  frocks;  all  bathed  in  the 
level  radiance  that  steals  over  earth  like  a  presence  in  the  last 
hours  of  a  summer  day  .  .  . 

Oxford  —  shrine  of  the  oldest  creeds  and  the  newest  fads  — 
given  over,  for  one  hilarious  week,  to  the  yearly  invasion  of 
mothers  and  sisters  and  cousins,  and  girls  that  were  neither; 
especially  girls  that  were  neither  .  .  . 

Two  of  the  punts,  clearly  containing  one  party,  kept  close 
enough  together  for  the  occupants  to  exchange  sallies  of  wit,  or 
any  blissful  foolishness  in  keeping  with  the  blissfully  foolish  mood 
of  a  moonlight  picnic  up  the  river  in  '  Commem.' 

Roy  Sinclair's  party  boasted  the  distinction  of  including  one 
mother,  Lady  Despard;  and  one  grandfather,  Cuthbert  Broome; 
and  Roy  himself  —  a  slender,  virile  figure  in  flannels,  and  New 
College  tie  —  was  poling  the  first  punt. 

As  in  boyhood,  so  now,  his  bearing  and  features  wereNevil  in- 
carnate. But  to  the  shrewd  eye  of  Broome  the  last  seemed  subtly 
overlaid  with  the  spirit  of  the  East — a  brooding  stillness  wrought 
from  the  clash  of  opposing  forces  within.  When  he  laughed  and 
talked,  it  vanished.  When  he  fell  silent,  and  drifted  away  from 
his  surroimdings,  it  reappeared. 

It  was  precisely  this  hidden  quality,  so  finely  balanced,  that 


68  FAR  TO  SEEK 

intrigued  the  brain  of  the  novelist,  as  distinct  from  the  heart  of 
the  godfather.  Which  was  the  real  Roy?  Which  would  prove 
the  decisive  factor  at  the  critical  corners  of  his  destiny?  To 
what  heights  would  it  carry  him  —  into  what  abyss  might  it 
plunge  him  — that  gleam  from  the  ancient  soul  of  things? 
Would  India  —  and  his  young  glorification  of  India  —  be,  for 
him,  a  spark  of  inspiration  or  a  stone  of  stumbling? 

Broome  had  not  seen  much  of  the  boy,  intimately,  since  the 
New  Year;  and  he  did  not  need  spectacles  to  discern  some  inner 
ferment  at  work.  Roy  was  more  talkative  and  less  commimica- 
tive  than  usual;  and  Broome  let  him  talk,  reading  between  the 
lines.  He  knew  to  a  nicety  the  moment  when  a  chance  question 
will  kill  confidence  —  or  evoke  it.  He  suspected  one  of  those 
critical  corners.  He  also  suspected  one  of  those  Indian  cousms 
of  his:  delightful,  both  of  them;  but  still .  .  . 

The  question  remained,  which  was  it  —  the  girl  or  the  boy? 

The  girl,  Aruna  —  student  at  Somerville  College  —  was  re- 
clining among  vast  blue  and  pink  cushions  in  the  bows,  pensively 
twirling  a  Japanese  parasol,  one  arm  flung  round  the  shoulders 
of  her  companion  —  a  fellow-student;  fair  and  stolid  and  good- 
humoured.  Broome  summed  her  up,  mentally:  "Tactless  but 
trustworthy.  Anglo-Saxon  to  the  last  button  on  her  ready- 
made  Shantung  coat  and  the  blunted  toe  of  her  white  suede 
shoe." 

Aruna  —  in  plain  English,  Dawn  —  was  quite  arrestingly 
otherwise.  Not  beautiful,  like  Lildmani,  nor  quite  so  fair  of  skin; 
but  what  the  face  lacked  in  symmetry  was  redeemed  by  lively 
play  of  expression,  piquante  tilt  of  nose  and  chin,  large  eyes, 
velvet-dark  like  browTi  pansies.  The  modelling  of  the- face  —  its 
breadth  and  roundness  and  uptm-ned  aspect  —  gave  it  a  pansy- 
like air.  Over  her  simple  summer  frock  of  carnation  pink  she 
wore  a  paler  sari  flecked  with  gold;  and  two  ropes  of  coral  beads 
enhanced  the  deeper  coral  of  her  full  lower  lip.  Not  yet  eighteen, 
she  was  studying  "pedagogy"  for  the  benefit  of  her  less  adven- 
turous sisters  in  Jaipur. 

Clearly  a  factor  to  be  reckoned  with,  this  creature  of  girlish 
laughter  and  high  purpose;  a  woman  to  the  tips  of  her  polished 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  69 

finger-naCs.  Yet  Broome  had  by  no  means  decided  that  it  was 
the  girl ... 

After  Desmond  — Dydn  Singh:  each,  in  his  tum  and  type, 
own  brother  to  Roy's  complex  soul.  Broome  —  in  no  insular 
spirit  —  preferred  the  earlier  influence.  But  Desmond  had  sped 
like  an  arrow  to  the  Border,  where  his  eldest  brother  commanded 
their  father's  old  regiment;  and  Dyan  Singh  —  handsome  and 
fiery,  young  India  at  its  best  —  reigned  in  his  stead.  The  two 
were  of  the  same  college.  Dy£n,  twelve  months  younger,  looked 
the  older  by  a  year  or  more.  Face  and  form  bore  the  Rajput 
stamp  of  viriUty,  of  a  racial  pride  verging  on  arrogance;  and  the 
Rajput  msignia  of  breeding  —  noticeably  small  hands  and  feet. 
He  was  poling  the  second  punt  with  less  skill  and  assurance 
than  Roy.  His  attention  was  palpably  distracted  by  a  vision  of 
Tara  among  the  cushions  in  the  bows;  an  arm  linked  through  her 
mother's,  as  though  defending  her  against  the  implication  of 
bemg  older  than  anyone  else,  or  in  the  least  degree  out  of  it 
because  of  that  trifling  detail  —  tacitly  admitted,  while  hoUy 
denied;  which  was  Tara  all  over. 

Certainly  Lady  Despard  still  looked  amazingly  young;  still 
emanated  the  vital  charm  she  had  transmitted  to  her  child.'  And 
Tara  at  twenty,  in  soft,  butter-coloured  frock  and  with  roses  in 
her  hat,  was  a  vision  alluring  enough  to  distract  any  young  man 
from  concentration  on  a  punt  pole.  Vivid,  eager,  and  venture- 
some, singularly  free  from  the  bane  of  self-consciousness-  not 
least  among  her  graces  —  and  rare  enough  to  be  notable  —  was 
the  grace  of  her  chivalrous  affection  for  the  older  generation.  In 
Tara's  eyes,  girls  who  patronised  their  mothers  and  tolerated 
their  fathers  were  anathema.  It  was  a  trait  certain  to  impress 
Roy's  Rajput  cousin;  and  Broome  wondered  whether  Helen  was 
ahve  to  the  disturbing  possibility;  whether,  for  all  her  genuine 
love  of  the  East,  she  would  acquiesce  . . . 

Only  the  other  day,  it  seemed,  he  and  she  had  sat  togethet 
among  the  rocks  of  the  dear  old  Cap,  listening  to  Nevil's  amaz- 
mg  news.  She  it  was  who  had  championed  his  choice  of  a  bride- 
and  Lilamani  had  justified  her  championship  to  the  full.  But 
then  —  Lilamani  was  one  in  many  thousands;  and  this  affair 


70  FAR  TO  SEEK 

would  be  the  other  way  about:  —  Tara,  the  apple  of  their  eye; 
Tara,  with  her  wild-flower  face  and  her  temperament  of  clear 

flame  —  ? 

How  sharply  they  tugged  at  his  middle-aged  heart,  these  cas- 
ual and  opinionated  young  things,  with  their  follies  and  fanati- 
cisms, their  Jacob's  ladders  hitched  perilously  to  the  stars;  with 
their  triumphs  and  failures  and  disillusions  all  ahead  of  them; 
airily  impervious  to  proffered  help  and  advice  from  those  who 
would  agonise  to  serve  them  if  they  could  — 

A  jarrmg  bump  in  the  siliall  of  his  back  cut  short  his  flagrantly 
Victorian  musings.  Dyan's  punt  was  the  offender;  and  Dyan 
himself,  clutching  the  pole  that  had  betrayed  him,  was  almost 
pitched  into  the  river. 

His  achievement  was  greeted  by  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  an 
ironic  'Played  indeed!'  from  Cuthbert  Gordon  —  Broome's 
grandson.  Roy,  tumbled  from  some  starry  dream  of  his  own, 
flashed  out  imperiously:  "Look  alive,  you  blithering  idiot.  'Who 
are  you  a-shoving  ? ' " 

The  Rajput's  face  darkened;  but  before  he  could  retort,  Tara 
had  risen  and  stepped  swiftly  to  his  side.  Her  fingers  closed  on 
the  pole;  and  she  smiled  straight  into  his  clouded  eyes. 

"Let  me,  please.  I'm  sick  of  lazing  and  fearfully  keen.  And 
I  can't  allow  my  mother  to  be  drownded  by  anyone  hut  me. 
I'd  be  obliged  to  murder  the  other  body,  which  would  be  awk- 
ward —  for  us  both  1 " 

"Miss  Despard  —  there  is  no  danger  — "  he  muttered  —  im- 
pervious to  htmiour;  and  —  as  if  by  chance  —  one  of  his  hands 
half  covered  hers. 

"Let  go,"  she  commanded,  so  low  that  no  one  else  knew  she 
had  spoken;  so  sternly  that  Dyan's  fingers  unclosed  as  if  they 
had  touched  fire. 

"Now,  don't  fuss.  Go  and  sit  down,"  she  added,  in  her  lighter 
vein.  "You've  done  your  share.  And  you're  jolly  grateful  to 
me,  really.  But  too  proud  to  own  it!" 

*'Not  too  proud  to  obey  you,"  he  muttered. 
She  saw  the  words  rather  than  heard  them;  and  he  turned 
away  without  daring  to  meet  her  eyes. 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  71 

It  all  passed  in  a  few  seconds;  but  it  left  him  tingling  with  re- 
pressed rage.  He  had  made  a  fool  of  himself  in  her  eyes;  had 
probably  given  away  his  secret  to  the  whole  party.  After  all, 
what  matter?  He  could  not  much  longer  have  kept  it  hidden.  By 
the  touch  of  hands  and  his  daring  words  he  had  practically  told 
her  . .  . 

As  he  settled  himself,  her  clear  voice  rang  out.  "Wake  up, 
Roy!  I'll  race  you  to  the  backwater." 

They  raced  to  the  backwater;  and  Tara  won  by  half  a  length, 
amid  cheers  from  the  men. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  had  to  let  you,"  Roy  exclaimed,  as  she  con- 
fronted him,  flushed  with  triumph.  "  Seemed  a  shame  to  cut  you 
out.  Not  as  if  you  were  a  giddy  suffragette!  " 

^'Qui  s^ excuse  —  s' accuse!"  she  retorted.  "Anyway — I'm 
the  winner." 

"Right  you  are.  The  way  of  girls  was  ever  so.  No  matter 
what  line  you  take,  it's  safe  to  be  the  wrong  one.'' 

"Hark  at  the  Cynic!"  jeered  young  Cuthbert.  "Were  you 
forty  on  the  9th,  or  was  it  forty-five?" 

Roy  grinned.  "Good  old  Cuthers!  Don't  exhaust  yourself 
tr)dng  to  be  funny!  Fish  out  the  drinks.  We've  earned  them, 
haven't  we  —  High-Tower  Princess? ''  The  last,  confidentially, 
for  Tara's  ear  alone. 

And  Dyan,  seeing  the  smile  in  her  eyes,  felt  jealousy  pierce 
him  like  a  red-hot  wire. 

The  supper,  provided  by  Roy  and  Dyan,  was  no  scratch  way- 
side meal,  but  an  ambrosial  affair:  —  salmon  mayonnaise,  ready 
mixed;  glazed  joints  of  chicken;  strawberries  and  cream;  lordly 
chocolate  boxes;  sparkling  moselle  —  and  syphons  for  the  ab- 
stemious. 

It  was  a  lively  meal:  Roy,  dropped  from  the  clouds,  the  film 
of  the  East  gone  from  his  face,  was  simply  Nevil  again;  ^^ven  as 
young  Cuthbert,  with  his  large  build  and  thatch  of  tawny  hair, 
was  a  juvenile  edition  of  Broome.  And  the  older  man,  watching 
them,  bandying  chaff  with  them,  renewed  his  youth  for  one  care- 
less golden  hour. 

The  punts  were  ranged  alongside;  and  they  all  eat  together, 


72  FAR  TO  SEEK 

English  and  Indian.  No  irksome  caste  rules  on  this  side  of  the 
water;  no  hint  of  condescension  in  the  friendly  attitude  of 
young  Oxford.  Nothing  to  jar  the  over-sensibility  of  young 
India  —  prone  to  suspect  slight  where  no  thought  of  it  exists; 
too  often,  also,  treated  to  exhibitions  of  ill-bred  arrogance  that 
undo  in  an  hour  the  harmonising  work  of  years. 

Dydn  sat  by  Tara,  anticipating  her  slightest  need;  courage 
rising  by  leaps  and  bounds.  Aruna,  from  her  nest  of  cushions, 
exchanged  lively  sallies  with  Roy.  Petted  by  a  college  full  of 
friendly  English  girls,  she  had  very  soon  lost  what  little  shyness 
she  ever  possessed.  Now  and  again  when  his  eyes  challenged 
hers,  she  would  veil  them  and  watch  him  surreptitiously;  one 
moment  approving  his  masculine  grace;  the  next  boldly  asking 
herself:  "Does  he  see  how  I  am  wearing  the  favourite  sari —  and 
how  my  coral  beads  make  my  lips  look  red?  "  And  again :  "  Why 
do  they  make  foolish  talk  of  a  gulf  between  East  and  West?  " 

To  that  profound  question  came  no  answer  in  words;  only  in 
hidden  stirrings,  that  she  preferred  to  ignore.  Both  brother  and 
sister  had  persuaded  themselves  that  talk  of  a  gulf  was  exag- 
gerated by  unfriendly  spirits.  They,  at  all  events,  havmg  built 
their  bridge,  took  its  stability  for  granted.  Children  of  an  emo- 
tional race,  it  sufficed  to  discover  that  they  loved  the  cool  green 
freshness  of  England,  the  careless,  kindly  freedom  of  her  life  and 
ways;  the  hiun  of  her  restless,  smoky,  all-embracing  London;  her 
miles  and  miles  of  books  and  pictures.  Above  everything  they 
loved  Oxford,  where  all  were  brothers  in  spirit  —  with  a  proper 
sense  of  difference  between  the  brothers  of  one's  own  college  and 
the  mere  outsider:  —  Oxford,  at  this  particular  hour  of  this  par- 
ticular June  evening.  And  at  this  actual  moment,' they  loved 
salmon  mayonnaise  and  crushed  strawberries  fully  as  much  as 
any  other  manifestation  of  the  delectable  land. 

And  down  in  subconscious  depths  —  untroubled  by  the  play 
of  surface  emotions  —  burned  their  passionate,  unreasoned  love 
of  India  that  any  chance  breath  might  rekindle  to  a  flame  — 

Presently,  as  the  sun  drew  down  to  earth,  trees  and  meadows 
swam  in  a  golden  haze.  Arrows  of  gold,  stealing  through  alders 
and  willows,  conjured  mere  leaves  into  discs  of  pure  green  light. 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  73 

Clouds  of  pollen  brightened  to  dust  of  gold.  In  the  near  haze 
midges  flickered;  and,  black  against  the  brightness,  swallows 
wheeled  and  dipped,  uttering  thin  cries  in  the  ecstasy  of  their 
evening  flight. 

On  the  two  punts  in  the  backwater  a  great  peace  descended 
after  the  hilarity  of  their  feast.  Clouds  of  cigarette  smoke  kept 
midges  at  bay.  In  the  deepening  stillness  small  sounds  asserted 
themselves  —  piping  of  gnats,  the  trill  of  happy  bu-ds,  snatches 
of  disembodied  laughter  and  talk  from  other  parties,  in  other 
punts,  somewhere  out  of  sight .  . . 

Only  Aruna  did  not  smoke;  and  Emily  Barnard,  her  fanatic 
devotee,  retired  with  her  to  the  bank,  where  they  made  a  lazy 
pretence  of  "washing  up."  But  Artina's  eyes  woidd  stray  to- 
ward the  recumbent  figure  of  Roy,  when  she  fancied  Ermnie 
was  not  looking.  And  Emmie  —  who  could  see  very  well  without 
looking  —  wished  him  at  the  bottom  of  the  river. 

Propped  on  an  elbow,  he  lay  among  Aruna's  cushions,  his 
senses  stirred  by  the  faint  carnation  scent  she  used,  enlarging  on 
the  theme  of  his  latest  enthusiasm  —  Rabindranath  Tagore,  the 
first  of  India's  poet-saints  to  challenge  the  ethics  of  the  with- 
drawn life.  When  the  mood  was  on,  the  veil  of  reserve  swept 
aside,  he  could  pour  out  his  ardours,  his  protests,  his  theories, 
in  an  eloquent  rush  of  words.  And  Aruna  —  absently  wiping 
spoons  and  forks  —  Ustened  entranced.  He  seemed  to  be  ad- 
dressing no  one  in  particular;  but  as  often  as  not  his  gaze 
rested  on  Broome,  as  though  he  were  indirectly  conveying  to  him 
thoughts  he  felt  shy  of  airing  when  they  were  alone. 

A  pause  in  the  flow  of  his  talk  left  a  space  of  silence  into  which 
the  encompassing  peace  and  radiance  stole  like  an  inflowing  tide. 
None  loved  better  than  Roy  the  ghostly  music  of  silence;  but  to- 
night his  brain  was  filled  with  the  music  of  words  —  not  his  own. 

"Just  listen  to  this,"  he  said,  without  preamble.  His  eyes  took 
on  then-  far-away  look;  his  voice  dropped  a  tone. 

The  night  is  night  of  mid-May;  the  breeze  is  the  breeze  of  the  South. 

From  my  heart  comes  out  and  dances  the  image  of  my  Desire. 

The  gleaming  vision  flits  on. 

I  try  to  clasp  it  firmly,  it  eludes  me  and  leads  me  astray. 

I  seek  what  I  cannot  get;  I  get  what  I  do  not  seek. 


74  FAR  TO  SEEK 

To  that  shining  fragment  of  truth  and  beauty  his  audience 
paid  the  fitting  tribute  of  silence;  and  his  gaze  —  retm-ning  to 
earth  —  caught,  in  Tara's  eyes,  a  reflection  of  his  exalted  mood. 
Dyan  saw  it  also;  and  once  more  that  red-hot  wire  pierced  his 
heart. 

It  passed  in  a  second;  and  Roy  was  speaking  again  —  not  to 
Tara,  but  to  her  mother. 

"  Is  there  any  poet,  East  or  West,  who  can  quite  so  exquisitely 
capture  the  essence  of  a  mood,  hold  it  lightly,  like  a  fluttering 
bird,  and  as  Hghtly  let  it  go?  " 

Lady  Despard  smiled  approval  at  the  simile.  "  In  that  one," 
she  said,  "he  has  captured  more  than  a  mood  —  the  very  essence 
of  life.  —  Have  you  met  him?  " 

"  Yes,  once  —  after  a  lecture.  We  had  a  talk  —  I'll  never  for- 
get. There's  wonderful  stuff  in  the  new  voliune.  I  know  most 
of  it  by  heart." 

"  Spare  us,  good  Lord,"  muttered  Cuthbert  —  neither  preju- 
diced nor  perverse,  but  British  to  the  core.  "  If  you  start  again, 
I'll  retaliate  with  Job  and  the  Psalms!" 

Roy  retorted  with  the  stump  of  an  extinct  cigarette.  It  smote 
the  offender  between  the  eyebrows,  leaving  a  caste-mark  of  warm 
ash  to  attest  the  accuracy  of  his  aim. 

"Bull's-eye!"  Tara  scored  softly:  and  Roy,  turning  on  his  el- 
bow, appealed  to  Broome.  "Jeffers,  please  extinguish  himl" 
CJeffers'  being  a  corruption  of  'G.F.',  alias  'Godfather'). 

Broome  laughed.  "I  had  a  hazy  notion  he  was  your  show 
candidate  for  the  Indian  Civil!" 

"  He's  supposed  to  be.  That's  the  scandal  of  it.  A  mighty  lot 
of  interest  he's  cultivating  in  the  people  and  the  country  he  as- 
pires to  administer." 

"High  art  and  sloppy  sentiment  are  not  in  the  bond,"  Cuth- 
bert retorted,  with  a  wink  at  Dyan  Singh. 

That  roused  Lady  Despard.  "  Insight  and  sympathy  must  be  in 
the  bond,  unless  England  and  India  are  to  drift  apart  altogether. 
The  Indian  Civilian  should  be  caught  early,  like  the  sailor,  and 
trained  on  the  spot.  Exams  make  character  a  side  issue.  And  one 
might  almost  say  there's  no  other  issue  in  the  Indian  services." 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  75 

Cuthbert  nodded.  "Glorious  farce,  isn't  it?  They  simply 
cram  us  like  Christmas  turkeys.  Efficiency's  the  war-cry,  these 
enlightened  days." 

"Too  much  efficiency,"  Dyan  struck  in,  with  a  kindling  eye. 
"Ahready  turning  our  ancient  cities  into  nightmares  like  Man- 
chester and  Birmingham,  killing  the  true  sense  of  beauty,  giving 
us  instead  the  poison  of  money  and  luxury  worship.  And  what 
result?  Just  now,  when  the  West  at  last  begins  to  notice  our 
genius  of  colour  and  design  —  even  to  learn  from  it  —  we  find  it 
slipping  out  of  our  own  fingers.  Nearly  all  the  homes  of  the  Eng- 
lish educated  are  like  caricatures  of  your  villas  —  the  worst  kind. 
Yet  there  are  still  many  on  both  sides  who  wish  to  make  life  — 
not  so  ugly,  to  escape  a  little  from  gross  superstition  oi  facts—" 

"Hear,  hear!"  Broome  applauded  him.  "But  I'm  afraid,  my 
dear  boy,  the  Time  Spirit  is  out  to  make  tradesmen  and  politi- 
cians of  us  all.  Thank  God  the  soul  of  a  race  lives  in  its  books,  its 
philosophy  and  art." 

"Very  well,  then—"  Roy  was  the  speaker.  "The  obvious 
remedy  lies  in  getting  the  souls  of  both  races  into  closer  touch  — 
philosophy,  art,  and  all  that  —  eh,  Jeffers?  That's  what  we're 
after  —  Dyan  and  I  —  on  the  lines  of  that  society  Dad  belongs 
to." 

Broome  looked  thoughtfully  from  one  to  the  other.  "A  tall 
order,"  said  he. 

"A  vision  splendid  I"  said  Lady  Despard. 

Roy  leaned  eagerly  towards  her.  "  You  don't  sneer  at  dreams, 
Aunt  Helen." 

"Nor  do  I,  my  son.  Dreamers  are  our  strictly  unpaid  torch- 
bearers.  They  light  the  path  for  us;  and  we  murmur,  'Poor 
fools ! '  with  a  kind  of  sneaking  self-satisfaction,  when  they  come  a 
cropper." 

"'Which  I  'ope  it  won't  'appen  to  me!'"  quoted  Roy,  cheered 
by  Lady  Despard's  approval.  "Anyway,  we're  keen  to  speed 
up  the  better  understanding  move  —  on  the  principle  that  Art 
unites  and  Politics  divide." 

"Very  pithy  —  and  approximately  true!  May  I  be  allowed  to 
proffer  a  sound  working  maxim  for  youth  on  the  war-path? 


76  FAR  TO  SEEK 

'Freedom  and  courage  in  thought  —  obedience  in  act.'  When  I 
say  obedience,  I  don't  mean  slavish  conformity.  When  I  say 
freedom,  I  don't  mean  licence.  Only  the  bond  are  free." 

"Jeffers,  you're  a  Daniel!  I'll  pinch  that  pearl  of  wisdom! 
But  what  about  democracy  —  Cuthers'  pet  panacea?  Isn't  it 
making  for  (/wobedience  in  act  —  rebellion;  and  enslavement  in 
thought  —  every  man  reared  on  the  same  catchwords,  minted 
with  the  same  hall-mark?" 

That  roused  the  much-enduring  British  Lion  —  in  the  person 
of  Cuthbert  Gordon. 

"Confound  you,  Roy!  This  is  a  picnic,  not  a  bally  Union  de- 
bate. You  can't  argue  for  nuts;  and  when  you  start  spouting 
you're  the  limit.  But  two  can  play  at  that  game ! "  He  flourished 
a  half-empty  syphon  of  lemonade,  threatening  the  handle  with  a 
very  square  thumb. 

"Fire  away,  old  bean!"  Roy  opened  his  mouth  by  way  of  in- 
vitation. Cuthbert  promptly  pressed  the  trigger  —  and  missed 
his  mark. 

There  was  a  small  shriek  from  Tara  and  from  the  girls  on  the 
bank:  then  the  opponents  proceeded  to  deal  with  one  another  in 
earnest .  . . 

■  Dydn  soon  lost  interest  when  India  was  not  the  theme ;  and,  as 
the  elders  fell  mto  an  undercurrent  of  talk,  his  eyes  sought  Tara's 
face.  Her  answering  smile  spurred  him  to  a  bold  move;  and  he 
leaned  towards  her,  over  the  edge  of  the  boat.  "  Miss  Despard," 
he  said  under  his  breath.  "Won't  you  come  for  a  stroll  in  the 
field?  —  Do." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'm  too  lazy!  We've  had  enough  exer- 
cise. And  there's  the  walk  home." 

Her  refusal  jarred  hun;  but  desire  overruled  pride.  "You 
couldn't  call  it  exercise.  Do  come." 

"Truly  — I'm  tked,"  she  insisted  gently,  looking  away  from 
him  towards  her  mother. 

It  was  Lady  Despard's  boast  that  she  could  listen  to  three  con- 
versations at  once;  but  even  Tara  was  surprised  when  she  casu- 
ally put  out  a  hand  and  patted  her  knee.  "Wise  child.  Better 
keep  quiet  till  we  start  home." 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  77 

The  hand  was  not  removed.  Tara  covered  it  with  her  own  and 
further  maddened  the  discomfited  Dyan  by  saying,  with  her  very 
kindest  smile:  "I'm  so  sorry.  Don't  be  vexed." 

Vexed!  The  bloodless  word  was  insult  piled  on  injury.  All  the 
pride  and  passion  of  his  race  flamed  in  him.  Without  answering 
her  :smile  or  her  plea,  he  drew  abruptly  away  from  her;  stepped 
out  of  the  punt  and  went  for  his  stroll  alone. 


Chapter  II 

Who  knows  what  days  I  answer  for  to-day?  .  . . 

Thoughts  yet  unripe  in  me,  I  bend  one  way  .  . . 

Alice  Meyneii, 

WmiE  Broome  and  Lady  Despard  were  concerned  over  indica- 
tions of  a  critical  comer  for  Roy,  there  was  none  —  save  perhaps 
Aruna  —  to  be  concerned  for  the  dilemma  of  Dyan  Singh,  Rajput 
—  half  savage,  half  chivalrous  gentleman;  idealist  in  the  grain; 
lover  of  England  and  India;  and  now  —  fiercely,  consumedly  — 
lover  of  Tara  Despard,  with  her  Indian  name  and  her  pearl- 
white  English  skin  and  the  benign  sunshine  of  England  in  her 
hair. 

It  is  the  danger-point  for  the  young  Indian  overseas,  unused  to 
free  intercourse  with  women  other  than  his  own;  saddled,  very 
often,  with  a  girl-wife  in  the  background;  —  the  last  by  no  means 
a  matter  of  course  in  these  enlightened  days.  In  Dyan  Singh's 
case  the  safeguard  was  lacking.  His  mother  being  dead,  he  had 
held  his  own  against  a  rigidly  conventional  grandmother,  and 
insisted  on  delaying  the  inevitable  till  his  education  was  com- 
plete. Waxing  bolder  still  —  he  had  demanded  the  same  respite 
for  Aruna;  a  far  more  serious  affair.  For  months  they  had  waged 
a  battle  of  tongues  and  temper  and  tears,  with  Mataji  —  high- 
priestess  of  the  Inside  —  with  the  family  matchmaker  and  the 
family  guru,  whom  to  offend  was  the  unforgiveable  sin.  Had 
he  not  power  to  call  down  upon  an  entire  household  the  curse  of 
the  gods? 

More  than  once  Aruna  had  been  goaded  to  the  brink  of  sur- 
render; till  her  brother  grew  impatient  and  spurned  her  as  a 
weakling.  Yet  her  ordeal  had  been  sharper  than  his  own.  For 
him,  mere  moral  suasion  and  threats  of  ostracism.  For  her,  the 
immemorial  methods  of  the  Inside;  forbidden  by  Sir  Lakshman, 
but  secretly  applied,  when  flagrant  obstinacy  demanded  drastic 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  79 

measures.  So  neither  Dydn  nor  his  grandfather  had  suspected 
that  Aruna,  for  days  together,  had  suffered  the  torment  of  Tanta- 
lus —  food  set  before  her  so  mercilessly  peppered  that  a  morsel 
would  raise  bUsters  on  her  lips  and  tongue;  water  steeped  in  salt; 
the  touch  of  the  "fire-stick"  applied  where  her  skin  was  tender- 
est;  not  to  mention  the  more  subtle  torment  of  gibes  and  threats 
and  vile  insinuations  that  sufiFused  her  with  shame  and  rage.  A 
word  to  the  menfolk,  threatened  Mataji,  and  worse  would  befall. 
If  men  cared  nothing  for  family  honour,  the  women  must  vindi- 
cate it  in  their  own  fashion.  For  the  two  were  doing  their  duty, 
up  to  their  lights.  Only  the  knowledge  that  Dyan  was  fighting 
her  battle,  as  well  as  his  own,  had  kept  the  girl  unbroken  in  spirit, 
even  when  her  body  cried  out  for  respite  at  any  price.  .  .  . 

All  this  she  had  confided  to  him  when,  at  last,  they  were  safe 
on  the  great  ship,  with  miles  of  turbulent  water  between  them 
and  the  ruthless  dominion  of  dastHr.  That  confession  —  with  its 
imconscious  revealing  of  the  Rajput  spirit  hidden  in  her  laughter- 
loving  heart — had  drawn  them  into  closest  union  and  filled  Dyan 
with  self-reproach.  Small  wonder  if  Oxford  seemed  to  both  a 
paradise  of  knowledge  and  of  friendly  freedom.  Small  wonder 
if  they  believed  that,  in  one  bold  leap,  they  had  bridged  the  gulf 
between  East  and  West. 

At  Bramleigh  Beeches,  Lilamani  —  who  knew  all  without  tell- 
ing —  had. welcomed  them  with  open  arms:  and  Lady  Despard 
no  less.  It  was  here  that  Dyan  met  Tara,  who  'had  no  use  for  col- 
leges '  —  and,  in  the  course  of  a  few  vacation  visits,  the  damage 
had  been  done. 

At  first  he  had  felt  startled;  even  a  little  dismayed.  English 
education  and  delayed  marriage  had  involved  no  dream  of  a 
possible  English  wife.  With  the  Lidian  Civil  in  view,  he  had 
hoped  to  meet  some  girl  student  of  his  own  race,  sufl5ciently  ad- 
vanced to  remain  outside  purdah  and  to  realise  that  a  modern 
Indian  husband  might  crave  companionship  from  his  wife  no'less 
than  motherhood,  worship,  and  service. 

And  now  . .  .  this  — / 

Striding  across  the  field,  in  the  glimmer  of  a  moon  just  begin- 


8o  FAR  TO  SEEK 

ning  to  take  colour,  he  alternately  raged  at  her  light  rebuff  and 
applauded  her  maidenly  hesitation.  As  a  Hindu  and  a  man  of 
breeding,  his  natural  instinct  had  been  to  approach  her  parents; 
but  he  knew  enough  of  modern  youth,  by  now,  to  realise  that 
English  parents  were  a  side  issue  in  these  little  affairs.  For  him- 
self, the  prunitive  lover  flamed  in  hun.  He  wanted  to  kneel  and 
worship  her.  In  the  same  breath,  he  wanted  simply  to  possess 
her,  would  she  or  no  .  .  . 

And  in  saner  moods,  uncertainty  racked  him.  What  did  they 
amount  to,  her  smiles  and  flashes  of  sympathy,  her  kind,  cousinly 
ways?  By  the  same  token,  what  did  Roy's  cousinly  kindness 
amount  to,  with  Aruna?  If  in  India  they  suffered  from  too 
much  restriction,  it  dawned  on  hun  that  in  England  trouble 
might  arise  from  too  much  freedom.  Always,  by  some  cause, 
there  would  be  suffering.  The  gods  would  see  to  it.  But  not 
through  loss  of  her  —  he  mutely  implored  them.  Any  way  but 
that! 

Everything  hung  on  the  walk  home.  Those  two  must  have 
finished  their  sparring  match  by  now. 

They  had.  Roy  was  on  the  bank,  helping  Aruna  pack  the  bas- 
ket; and  Cuthbert  in  possession  of  Tara  —  not  for  long. 

He  was  called  upon  to  punt  back;  and  at  the  boat-house,  where 
a  taxi  removed  the  elders  and  the  picnic  impedimenta,  he  essayed 
a  futile  manoeuvre  to  recapture  Tara  and  saddle  Dydn  with  the 
solid  Emily.  Failing,  he  consoled  himself  by  keepmg  in  touch 
with  Aruna  and  Roy. 

Dydn  patently  delayed  starting;  patently  lagged  behind.  Un- 
skilled and  desperately  in  earnest,  he  could  not  lead  up  to  his 
moment.  He  was  laboriously  framing  the  essential  words  when 
Tara  scattered  them  with  a  light  remark,  rallymg  hun  on  his 
snail's  pace. 

"You  would  go  for  that  stroll;  and  you  strolled  so  vio- 
lently—!" 

"Because  my  heart  in  me  was  raging  —  achmg,  violently!" 
he  blurted  out  with  such  imexpected  vehemence,  that  she  started 
and  stepped  back  a  pace.  "Of  course  I  knew  there  must 
be  difficulties  —  so  I  have  been  waitmg  and  hoping  . . ."   An 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  8i 

idiotic  catch  in  his  throat  brought  a  sudden  hot  wave  of  self- 
consciousness.  He  flung  out  both  hands.  "Tara  — !" 

Instinctively,  she  drew  her  own  out  of  reach.  A  ghost  of  a 
shiver  ran  through  her.  "No  —  no.  I  don't ...  I  never  have 
...  If  I've  misled  you,  I'm  ever  so  sorry." 

"If  you  are  sorry  —  give  me  hope,"  his  voice,  his  eyes  implored 
her.  "You  come  so  near  —  then  you  draw  back;  like  offering  a 
thirsty  man  a  cup  of  water  he  must  not  drink.  Give  me  only 
a  little  time  —  a  little  chance  — " 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Please  believe  me.  I'm  not  the  wavering 
kind.  I'm  keen  to  go  on  being  friends  —  because  of  Roy.  But, 
truthfully,  it's  no  use  hoping  for  anything  more  —  ever." 

Her  patent  sincerity,  the  sweet  seriousness  of  her  face,  car- 
ried conviction.  And  conviction  turned  his  ardour  to  bitter- 
ness. 

"Why  no  use  —  ever?  "  he  flung  out,  maddened  by  her  empha- 
sis on  the  word. 

"  I  suppose  —  because  I  know  my  own  mind." 

"No.  Because  —  /  am  Indian."  His  voice  was  changed  and 
harsh.  "  We  are  all  British  subjects  —  oh,  yes  —  when  conven- 
ient! But  the  door  is  opened  only  —  so  far.  If  we  make  bold  to 
ask  for  the  best,  it  is  slammed  in  our  faces." 

"Dydn  Singh,  if  I  have  hurt  you,  it  was  quite  unintentional. 
You  know  that.  But  now,  with  intention,  you  are  hurting  me." 
Her  dignity  and  gentleness,  the  justice  of  her  reproof,  smote  him 
silent;  and  she  went  on:  "You  forget,  it  is  the  same  among  your 
own  people.  Aunt  Lila  was  cast  out  —  for  always.  With  an  Eng- 
lish girl  that  could  never  be." 

Too  distraught  for  argimient,  he  harked  back  to  the  personal 
issue.  "With  you  there  would  be  no  need.  I  would  live  alto- 
gether like  an  Englishman  — " 

"Oh,  stop!"  she  broke  out 'desperately.  "Don't  start  all  over 
again — " 

"Look  alive,  you  two  slackers!"  shouted  Roy,  from  the  far 
comer  of  the  road.  "  I'm  responsible  for  keeping  the  team  to- 
gether." 

"Coining!"  called  Tara,  and  turned  on  Dydn  a  final  glance  of 


82  FAR  TO  SEEK 

appeal.   "I'm  sorry  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  I  can't  say 
more."  —  And,  setting  the  pace,  she  hurried  forward. 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second,  he  hesitated.  An  overmastering 
impulse  seized  him  to  walk  off  in  the  opposite  direction.  His 
eager  love  for  them  all  had  suddenly  turned  to  gall.  But  pride 
forbade.  He  would  not  for  the  world  have  them  guess  at  his  re- 
buff —  not  even  Aruna  . . . 

He  slept  little  that  night;  and  it  was  not  Dy£n  Smgh  of  New 
College  who  awoke  next  morning.  It  was  Dyan  Singh,  Rajput, 
Descendant  of  the  Sun.  Yet  the  fooUsh  round  of  life  must  go  on 
as  if  no  vital  change  had  come  to  pass. 

That  afternoon,  he  was  going  with  Roy  to  a  select  drawing- 
room  meeting.  A  certain  Mr.  Ramji  Lai  had  been  asked  to  read 
a  paper  on  the  revival  of  Indian  arts  and  crafts.  Dyan  had  been 
looking  forward  to  it  keenly;  but  now,  sore  and  miserable  as  he 
was  —  all  sense  of  purpose  and  direction  gone  —  he  felt  out  of 
tune  with  the  whole  thing. 

He  would  have  been,  thankful  to  cry  off.  Roy,  however,  must 
not  suspect  the  truth  —  Roy,  who  himself  might  be  the  stum- 
bling-block. The  suspicion  stung  like  a  scorpion;  though  it 
soothed  a  little  his  hurt  pride  of  race. 

Embittered  and  antagonistic,  he  listened  only  with  half  his 
mind  to  his  own  countryman's  impassioned  appeal  for  renewal  of 
the  true  Swadeshi^  spirit  in  India;  renewal  of  her  own  innate 
artistic  culture,  her  faith  in  the  creative  power  of  thought  and 
ideas.  That  spirit  —  said  the  speaker  —  has  no  war-cries,  no 
shoutings  in  the  market-place.  It  is  a  way  of  looking  at  life.  Its 
true  genesis  and  inspiration  is  in  the  home.  Like  flame,  newly  lit, 
it  needs  cherishing.  Instead,  it  is  in  danger  of  being  stamped  out 
by  false  Swadeshi  —  an  imitation  product  of  the  West;  noisy  and 
political,  crying  out  for  more  factories,  more  councils;  caring 
nothing  for  true  Indian  traditions  of  art  and  life.  It  will  not  buy 
goods  from  Birmingham  and  Manchester.  But  it  will  create 
Birmingham  and  Manchester  in  India.  In  effect,  it  is  the  age-old 
argument  whether  the  greatness  of  a  nation  comes  from  the 
dominion  of  men  or  machinery  .  .  . 

^  Own  Country. 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  83 

For  all  this,  Dyan  had  cared  intensely  twenty-four  hours  ago. 
Now  it  seemed  little  better  than  a  rhapsody  of  fine  phrases  — 
'sounding  brass  and  tinkling  cymbals.' 

Could  the  mere  word  of  a  woman  so  swiftly  and  violently 
transform  the  mind  of  a  man?  His  innate  masculinity  resented 
the  idea.  It  succumbed,  nevertheless.  He  was  too  deeply  hurt 
in  his  pride  and  his  passionate  heart  to  think  or  feel  sanely  while 
the  wound  was  still  so  fresh.  He  was  scarcely  stirred  even  by 
the  allusion  to  Rajputana  in  Mr.  Ramji  Lai's  peroration. 

"I  ask  you  to  consider,  in  conclusion  —  my  dear  and  honoured 
English  friends  —  the  words  of  a  veteran  lover  of  India,  who  is 
also  a  son  of  England.  It  was  his  conviction  —  it  is  also  mine 
—  that  the  still  living  art  of  India,  the  still  living  chivalry  of 
Rajputana,  the  still  living  religion  of  the  Hindus  are  the  only 
three  points  on  which  there  is  any  possibility  of  regenerating  the 
national  life  of  India  —  the  India  of  the  Hindus  ..." 

Very  fine;  doubtless  very  true;  but  what  use  —  after  all  — 
their  eternal  talk?  By  blowing  volumes  of  air  from  their  lungs, 
did  they  shift  the  mountains  of  difficulty  one  single  inch?  More 
talk  followed ;  tea  and  attentions  that  would  have  flattered  him 
yesterday.  To-day  it  all  passed  clean  over  his  head.  They  were 
ready  enough  to  pamper  him,  like  a  lapdog,  these  good  ladies; 
forgetting  he  was  a  man,  with  a  man's  heart  and  brain,  making 
demand  for  something  more  than  carefully  chosen  sugar-plums. 

He  had  never  been  so  thankful  to  get  away  from  that  hospita- 
ble house,  where  he  had  imagined  himself  so  happy  .  .  . 

They  were  out  in  the  street  again,  striding  back  to  New  College : 
Roy  —  not  yet  alive  to  the  change  in  him  —  full  of  it  all;  talking 
nineteen  to  the  dozen.  But  Dydn's  urgent  heart  spoke  louder 
than  his  cousin's  voice.  And  all  the  while,  he  kept  wondering, 
consumedly  —  Was  it  Roy? 

fte  could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  outright.  The  answer  would 
madden  him  either  way.  And  Goodness  —  or  Badness  —  knew 
he  was  miserable  enough :  hurt,  angry,  with  Fate,  with  England, 
even  with  Tara  —  lovely  and  unattainable!  She  had  spoilt 
everything:  his  relation  with  her,  with  her  people,  with  Roy. 
She  had  quenched  his  zeal  for  their  joint  crusade.  All  the  same, 


84  FAR  TO  SEEK 

he  would  hold  Roy  to  the  India  plan;  smce  there  was  just  a 
chance  —  and  it  would  take  him  away  from  her.  He  hated  him- 
self for  the  thought;  but  jealousy,  in  the  East,  is  a  consuming 
fire  .  .  . 

Roy's  monologue  ceased  abruptly.  "  Your  innings,  old  chap,  I 
think!  "he  said.  "  You're  mum  as  a  fish  this  afternoon.  I  noticed 
it  in  there  —  I  thought  you'd  have  lots  to  say  to  Ramji  Lai." 

Dydn  frowned.  He  could  not  for  long  play  at  pretences  with 
Roy. 

"Those  ladies  did  all  the  saying.  They  would  not  have  liked 
it  at  all  if  I  had  spoken  my  true  thought — "  He  paused  and 
added  deliberately — "That  we  are  all  cracking  our  skulls  against 
Btone  walls." 

"My  dear  chap  — !"  Roy  stared  in  frank  bewilderment. 
**  What's  gone  wrong?  Your  liver  touched  up?  Too  much  sahnon 
mayonnaise  and  cream?" 

His  light  tone  goaded  Dydn  to  exasperation.  "Quite  likely," 
he  retorted,  a  sneer  lurkuig  in  his  tone.  "Plenty  of  mayonnaise 
and  cream,  for  all  parties.  But  when  we  make  bold  to  ask  for 
more  satisfying  things,  we  find  'No  Indians  need  apply.'" 

"But  —  my  good  Dydn  — !" 

"Well  — it's  true.  Suppose  I  wish  to  promote  that  closer 
union  we  all  chatter  about  by  marrying  an  English  ghl  —  what 
then?" 

Up  went  Roy's  eyebrows.  "Are  you  after  an  English  wife?" 

"I  am  submitting  a  case  — that  might  easily  occur."  He 
spoke  with  a  touch  of  irritation;  and,  fearing  self-betrayal, 
swerved  from  the  main  issue.  "Would  you  marry  an  Indian 
girl?" 

"I  believe  so.  If  I  was  keen.  I'm  not  at  all  sure,  though,  if 
it's  sound  —  in  principle  —  mixing  such  opposite  strains.  And 
in  your  case  —  hypothetical,  I  suppose  — ?  " 

Dydn's  grunt  confessed  nothing  and  denied  nothing. 

"Well  —  from  what  one  hears,  an  English  wife,  out  there, 
might  make  a  bit  of  complication,  if  you  get  the  'Civil.'" 

Dyan  started.  "  I  shan't  go  up  for  it.  I've  changed  my  mind." 

"Good  Lord!  And  you've  been  sweatmg  all  this  time." 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  85 

Dyan's  smile  was  tinged  with  bitterness. 

"  Well  —  one  lives  and  learns.  I  can  make  good  use  of  my 
knowledge  without  turning  myself  into  an  imitation  Englishman. 
An  Indian  wife  might  make  equal  difficulty.  So  —  with  all  my 
zeal  —  I  am  between  two  grindstones.  My  father  joined  the 
Civil.  He  was  keen.  He  did  well.  But  —  no  promotion;  and 
little  friendliness,  except  from  very  few.  I  believe  he  was  never 
happy.  I  believe  —  it  killed  him.  I  was  cherishing  a  hope  that, 
now,  things  might  be  better.  But  I  am  beginning  to  see  —  I  may 
be  wrong.  Safer  to  see  it  in  time  — " 

Roy  looked  genuinely  distressed.  "Poor  old  Dydn.  Perhaps 
you're  right.  I  don't  know  much  about  British  India.  But  it 
does  seem  hard  lines  —  and  bad  policy  —  to  choke  off  men  like 
you." 

"Yes.  They  might  consider  that  more,  if  they  heard  some 
of  our  fire-eaters.  One  was  at  me  last  week.  He  gave  the  British 
ten  years  to  survive.  Said  their  lot  could  raise  a  revolution  to- 
morrow if  they  had  money  —  a  trifle  of  five  millions!  He  was 
swearing  the  Indian  princes  are  not  loyal,  in  spite  of  talk  and  sub- 
scriptions; that  the  Army  will  join  whichever  side  gives  best  pay. 
We  who  are  loyal  need  some  encouragement  —  some  recognition. 
We  are  only  human  —  I" 

"Rather.  But  you  won't  go  back  on  our  little  show,  old  chap. 
Just  when  I'm  dead  keen  —  lajdng  my  plans  for  India  — " 

He  took  hold  of  Dyan's  upper  arm  and  gave  it  a  friendly  shake. 

"  No,  I'll  stick  to  that.  But  are  you  sure  you  can  work  it  — 
with  your  people?  If  you  back  out,  I  swear,  by  the  sin  of  the  sack 
of  Chitor,  I'll  join  the  beastly  crowd  who  are  learning  to  make 
bombs  in  Berlin." 

At  that  —  the  most  solemn  oath  that  can  pass  the  lips  of  a 
Rajput  —  Roy  looked  startled.  Then  he  laughed. 

"  'Commem'  seems  to  have  disagreed  with  you  all  round!  But 
I  won't  be  intimidated.  Likewise  —  I  won't  back  out.  But  I 
intend  opening  diplomatic  conversations  with  Jeffers  to-night. 
Recherche  dinner  for  two  in  my  room.  All  his  little  weaknesses! 
He'd  be  a  strong  ally.  Wish  me  luck." 

Dyan  wished  him  luck  in  a  rather  perfunctory  tone,  consider- 


86  FAR  TO  SEEK 

ing  his  vehemence  of  a  moment  earlier.  All  the  fire  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  gone  out  of  him. 

They  had  just  entered  the  college  gate;  and  a  few  yards  ahead, 
they  caught  sight  of  Lady  Despard  and  Tara;  the  girl's  hand 
linked  through  her  mother's  arm. 

"Oh,  I  clean  forgot,"  remarked  Roy.  "I  said  they  could  look 

in." 


Chapter  III 

It  is  the  spirit  of  the  quest  which  helps. 
I  am  the  slave  ojf  this  spirit  of  the  quest. 

Kabir 

Roy's  recherche  little  dinner  proved  an  unqualified  success. 
With  sole  and  chicken  saute,  with  trifle  and  savoury,  he  mutely 
pleaded  his  cause;  feeling  vaguely  guilty,  the  while,  of  belittling 
his  childhood's  idol,  whom  he  increasingly  admired  and  loved. 
But  this  India  business  was  tremendously  important,  and  the 
dear  old  boy  would  never  suspect  — 

Roy  watched  him  savouring  the  chicken  and  peas;  discussing 
the  decay  of  falling  in  love,  its  reasons  and  remedies;  and  thought, 
for  the  hundredth  time,  what  a  splendid  old  boy  he  was;  so  big 
and  breezy,  nothing  bookish  or  newspapery  about  him.  Quite  a 
masterpiece  of  modelling,  on  Nature's  part;  the  breadth  and 
bulk  of  him;  the  massive  head,  with  its  thatch  of  tawny-grey 
hair  that  retreated  up  the  sides  of  his  forehead,  making  corners; 
the  nose,  full  of  character,  the  beard  and  the  sea-blue  eyes  that 
gave  him  the  sailor  aspect  Roy  had  so  loved  in  nursery  days. 
Now  he  appraised  it  consciously,  with  the  artist's  eye.  More:  a 
vigorous  bust  of  his  godfather  was  his  acknowledged  masterpiece, 
so  far,  in  the  modelling  line,  which  he  preferred  to  brush  or  pencil. 
But  first  and  foremost,  literature  claimed  him:  poetry,  essays, 
and  the  despised  novel  —  truest  and  most  plastic  medium  for  in- 
terpreting man  to  man  and  race  to  race:  the  most  entirely  obvious 
medium,  thought  Roy,  for  promoting  the  cause  he  had  at  heart. 

Though  his  brain  was  overflowing  with  the  great  subject,  he 
was  reserving  it,  diplomatically,  for  the  more  intimate  atmosphere 
of  port  wine,  coffee,  and  cigars.  Meantime  they  always  had 
plenty  to  talk  about,  these  two.  Broome  held  the  unorthodox 
view  that  he  probably  had  quite  as  much  to  learn  from  the  young 
as  they  from  him;  and  at  the  moment,  the  question  whether  Roy 
should  take  up  literature  in  earnest  was  very  much  to  the  fore. 


88  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Once  or  twice  during  a  pause,  he  caught  the  shrewd  blue  eye 
watching  him  from  under  shaggy  brows;  but  each  kept  his  own 
counsel  tUl  the  scout  had  removed  all  superfluities.  Then  Broome 
chose  a  cigar,  sniffed  it,  and  beheaded  it 

"My  particular  weakness!"  he  remarked  pensively,  while  Koy 
filled  his  glass.  "What  an  attentive  godson  it  is!  And  after  this 
intriguing  prelude  what  of  the  main  plot  —  India?  " 

Under  a  glance  as  direct  as  the  question  Roy  reddened  fu- 
riously The  'dear  old  boy'  had  done  more  than  suspect,  he  had 
seen  through  the  whole  show  —  the  indignity  of  all  others  that 

youth  can  least  abide.  i,  j     ,* 

At  sight  of  his  crestfallen  countenance,  Broome  laughed  out- 
right "Bear  up,  old  man!  Don't  grudge  me  a  fraction  of  the  wits 
I  live  bv    Weren't  you  trying  to  give  me  an  inUing  yesterday  ? 

Roy  nodded,  mollified  a  little.  But  his  self-confidence,  never  a 
hardy  plant,  wUted  under  the  false  start.  How  about  arm- 
chairs?''  he  remarked  tentatively,  very  much  engaged  with  a 

"  TlfeTremoved  their  coffee-cups,  and  sipped  once  or  twice  in 
silence    "  I'm  waiting,"  said  Broome,  encouragement  m  his  tone. 

But  Roy  still  hesitated.  "You  see  — "  he  temporised;  I  m 
so  fearfully  keen,  I  feel  shy  of  gassing  about  it.  Might  seem  to 
you  mere  soppy  sentiment."  ,.        * 

Broome's  sailor  eyes  twinkled.  "You  pay  me  the  compliment, 
my  son,  of  treating  me  as  if  I  were  a  fellow-undergrad!  It  s  only 
the  teens  and  the  twenties  of  this  very  new  century  that  are  so 
mortally  afraid  of  sentiment  -  the  main  factor  in  human  happi- 
ness If  you  had  not  a  strong  sentiment  for  India,  you  would  be 
unworthy  of  your  mother.  You  want  to  go  out  there  -  is  that 
the  rub?" 

"Yes.  WithDyan." 

"In  what  capacity?"  " 

-  A  lover  and  a  learner.  Also  -  by  way  of  -  a  budding  authoi 
I  was  hoping  you  might  back  me  up  with  a  few  commissions  for 
my  preliminary  stuff."  .  -  ut-t    \r.A 

-You  selected  your  godfather  with  unerring  foresight!  And, 
preliminaries  over  -  a  book,  or  books,  would  be  the  end  m  view? 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  89 

"Yes  —  and  other  things.  Whatever  one  can  do,  in  a  small 
way  — to  inspire  a  friendlier  feeling  all  round;  a  clearer  con- 
viction that  the  destinies  of  England  and  India  are  humanly 
bound  up  together.  I'm  sure  those  cursed  politics  are  respon- 
sible for  most  of  the  friction.  It's  art  and  literature,  the  emo- 
tional and  spiritual  forces  that  draw  men  together,  isn't  it, 
Jeffers?  You  know  that  — " 

He  leaned  forward,  warming  to  his  subject;  the  false  start  for- 
gotten; shyness  dispelled. 

^  And,  once  started,  none  knew  better  than  Broome  how  to  lure 
him  on  to  fuller,  unconscious  self-revealing.  He  knew  very  well 
that,  on  this  topic,  and  on  many  others,  Roy  could  enlarge  more 
freely  to  him  than  to  his  father.  Youth  is  made  that  way.  In  his 
opinion,  it  was  all  to  the  good  that  Roy  should  aspire  to  use  his 
double  heritage,  for  the  legitimate  and  noble  purpose  of  inter- 
preting —  as  far  as  might  be  —  East  to  West,  and  West  to  East: 
not  least,  because  he  would  probably  learn  a  good  deal  more  than 
he  was  qualified  to  teach.  It  was  in  the  process  of  qualifying 
himself,  by  closer  acquaintance  with  India,  that  the  lurking  dan- 
ger reared  its  head.  But  some  outlet  there  must  be  for  the 
Eastern  spu-it  in  him,  and  his  early  efforts  pointed  clearly  to 
literary  expression,  if  Broome  knew  anything  of  the  creative  gift. 
Himself  a  devotee,  he  agreed  with  Lafcadio  Hearn  that  *a  man 
may  do  quite  as  great  a  service  to  his  country  by  writing  a  book 
as  by  winning  a  battle ';  and  just  so  much  of  these  thoughts  as 
seemed  fit  he  imparted  to  Roy,  who  —  in  response  to  the  last  — 
glowed  visibly. 

"Priceless  old  JeflFers!  I  knew  I  could  reckon  on  you  to  back 
me  up  —  and  buck  me  up!  Of  course  one  will  be  hugely  encour- 
aged by  the  bleating  of  the  practical  crowd  —  Aunt  Jane  and  Co. 
*Why^  waste  your  time  writing  silly  novels?'  And  if  you  try  to 
explain  that  novels  have  a  real  function,  they  merely  think 
you've  got  a  swelled  head." 

"Never  mind,  Roy.  'The  quest  is  a  noble  one  and  the  hope 
great.*  And  we  scribblers  have  our  glorious  compensations.  As 
for  Aunt  Jane  —  "  He  looked  very  straight  at  her  nephew  — 
and  winked  deliberately. 


90  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Oh,  of  course  — she's  the  unlimited  limit,"  Roy  agreed 
shamelessly.   "I  suppose  if  Dad  plays  up,  she'll  give  him  hell?" 
"  Good  measure,  pressed  down.  —  By  the  way  —  have  you 
spoken  to  him  yet  of  all  this  —  ?" 

"No.  Mother  probably  guesses.  But  you're  the  first.  I  made 
sure  you^d  understand  —  " 

"You  feel  doubtful  —  about  Father?" 
«]y[  —  Yes.  I  don't  quite  know  why." 
Broome  was  silent  a  moment.  "After  all  —  it's  natural.  Put 
yourself  in  his  place,  Roy.  He  sees  India  taking  a  stronger  hold 
of  you  each  year.  He  knows  you've  a  deal  of  your  mother  and 
grandfather  in  your  make-up.  He  may  very  well  be  afraid  of  the 
magnet  proving  too  strong  at  close  quarters.  And  I  suspect  he's 
jealous  —  for  England.  He'd  like  to  see  your  soul  centred  on 
Bramleigh  Beeches;  and  I  more  than  suspect  they'd  both  prefer 
to  keep  you  nearer  home," 

Roy  looked  distressed.  "Hard  Hues.  I  hadn't  got  to  that  yet. 
But  it  wouldn't  be  for  always.  And  —  there's  George  and  Jerry 
sprouting  up."  .    ,         t,  » 

"  I  gather  that  George  and  Jerry  are  not  precisely  —  Roy  — 
"  JefEers  —  you  old  smner !  I  can't  flatter  myself  — !" 
"Don't  be  blatantly  British,  Roy!  You  can  flatter  yourself 
—  you  know  as  well  as  I  do ! " 

"  I  know  it's  undiplomatic  to  contradict  my  elders!"  countered 
Roy,  lunging  after  pipe  and  pouch.  ^ 

"Especially  convenient  godfathers,  with  press  connections? 
Roy  fronted  him  squarely,  laughter  lurking  in  his  eyes.  "Are 
you  going  to  be  convenient  —  that's  the  rub !  Will  you  give  Dad 
a  notion  I  may  turn  out  something  decent  when  I've  scraped  up 
some  crumbs  of  knowledge  —  ?  " 

Broome  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  large,  reassuring  hand  on 
his  knee.  "Trust  me  to  pull  it  off,  old  man  —  provided  Mother 
approves.    We  couldn't  press  it  against  her  wish  — either  of 

us." 

"No  —  we  couldn't."  There  was  a  new  gravity  m  Roy  s  tone. 
"As  I  said,  she  probably  knows  all  about  it.  That's  her  way. 
She  understandeth  one's  thoughts  long  before."  The  last  in  a 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  91 

lower  tone  —  as  if  to  himself  —  his  eyes  dwelling  on  her  por- 
trait above  the  mantelpiece:  the  one  in  the  studio  window-seat. 

And  Broome  thought:  "With  all  his  brains,  the  man's  hardly 
astir  in  him  yet:  and  the  boy's  still  in  love  with  her.  This  notion 
may  be  an  unconscious  outlet.  A  healthy  one  —  if  Nevil  can  be 
got  to  see  it  that  way." 

After  a  perceptible  pause,  he  said  quietly:  "Remember,  Roy, 
just  because  she's  unique,  she  can't  be  taken  as  representative. 
She  naturally  stands  for  India  in  your  eyes.  But  no  country  can 
produce  beings  of  her  quality  by  the  score  —  " 

'T  suppose  not."  Roy  reluctantly  shifted  his  gaze.  "But  she 
does  represent  what's  best  in  the  Indian  spirit:  the  spirit  that 
people  over  here  might  take  more  pains  to  understand." 

"And  you  are  peculiarly  well  fitted  to  assist  them,  I  admit  — 
if  Father's  willing  to  bear  the  cost  of  your  trip.  It's  a  compact 
between  us.  The  snare  of  your  Ai  dinner  shall  not  have  been 
laid  in  vain ! " 

They  sat  on  together  for  more  than  an  hour.  Then  Broome 
departed,  leaving  Roy  to  dream  —  in  a  blue  mist  of  tobacco 
smoke  —  the  opal-tinted,  egocentric  dreams  of  one-and-twenty. 

And  to-night  one  dream  eclipsed  them  all. 

For  years  the  germ  of  it  had  lived  in  him  like  a  seed  in  darkness; 
growing  with  him  as  he  grew.  All  incidents  and  impressions  that 
struck  deep  had  served  to  vitalise  it:  that  early  championship 
of  his  mother;  her  tales  of  Rajputana;  his  friendship  with  Des- 
mond and  Dyan;  and,  not  least,  his  father's  Ramayana  pictures, 
in  the  long  gallery  at  home,  that  had  seized  his  imagination  in 
very  early  days,  when  their  appeal  was  simply  to  his  innate 
sense  of  colour,  and  the  reiterate  wonder  and  beauty  of  his  moth- 
er's face  in  those  moving  scenes  from  the  story  of  Sita  —  India's 
crown  of  womanhood  ... 

Then  there  was  the  vivid  memory,  stamped  on  his  mind  in  de- 
tail, of  a  room  in  his  grandfather's  house;  the  stately  old  man, 
with  his  deep  voice,  speaking  words  that  he  only  came  to  under- 
stand years  after; and  the  look  Ln  his  mother's  eyes, as  she  clapped 
her  hands  without  soimd,  in  the  young  fashion  he  loved  . . . 


92  FAR  TO  SEEK 

And  Chandranath  —  another  glimpse  of  India;  the  ugly  side 
.  . .  And  stories  from  Tod's  Rajasthan  —  that  grim  and  stirring 
panorama  of  romance  and  chivalry,  of  cruelty  and  cimning; 
orgies  of  slaughter  and  miracles  of  high-hearted  devotion  .  .  . 

Barbaric;  utterly  foreign  to  life,  as  he  had  lived  it,  those  tales 
of  ancient  India  most  strangely  awakened  in  him  a  vague,  thrill- 
ing sense  of  familiarity  ...  He  knew  .  .  .  !  Most  clearly  he 
knew  the  spirit  that  fired  them  all,  when  the  legions  of  Akbar 
broke,  wave  on  wave,  against  the  mighty  rock-fortress  of  Chitor 
—  far-famed  capital  of  Mewar,  thrice  sacked  by  Islam  and  de- 
serted by  her  royal  house,  so  that  only  the  ghost  of  her  glory  re- 
mains —  a  protest,  a  challenge,  an  inspiration  . .  . 

Sometimes  he  dreamed  it  all,  with  amazing  vividness.  And 
in  the  dreams  there  was  always  the  feeling  that  he  knew  ...  It 
was  a  very  queer,  very  exciting  sensation.  He  had  spoken  of  it 
to  no  one  but  his  mother  and  Tara;  except  once  at  Marlborough, 
when  he  had  been  moved  to  try  whether  Lance  would  under- 
stand. 

Priceless  old  Desmond !  It  had  been  killing  to  watch  his  face  — 
interested,  sceptical,  faintly  alarmed,  when  he  discovered  that 
it  was  not  an  elaborate  attempt  to  pull  his  leg.  By  way  of  reas- 
suring him,  Roy  had  confessed  it  was  a  family  failing.  When 
things  went  wrong,  his  mother  nearly  always  knew:  and  some^ 
times  she  came  to  him,  in  dreams  that  were  not  exactly  dreams. 
What  harm? 

Desmond,  puzzled  and  sceptical,  was  not  prepared  to  hazard 
an  opinion.  If  Roy  was  made  that  way,  of  course  he  couldn't 
help  it.  And  Roy,  half  indignant,  had  declared  he  wouldn't  for 
worlds  be  made  any  other  way  ... 

To-night,  by  some  freak  of  memory,  it  all  came  back  to  him 
through  the  dream-inducing  haze  of  tobacco  smoke.  And  there, 
on  his  writing-table,  stood  a  full-length  photograph  of  Lance  in 
Punjab  cavalry  uniform.  Soldiering  on  che  Indian  Border,  ful- 
filUng  himself  in  his  own  splendid  fashion,  he  was  clearly  in  his 
element;  attached  to  his  father's  old  regiment,  with  Paul  for 
second-in-command;  proud  of  his  strapping  Sikhs  and  Pathans; 
watched  over,  revered,  and  implicitly  obeyed  by  the  sons  of  men 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  93 

who  had  served  with  his  father— men,  for  whom  the  mere  name 
Desmond  was  a  talisman.  For  that  is  India's  way. 

And  here  was  he,  Roy,  still  at  his  old  trick  of  scribblmg  poems 
and  dreaming  dreams.  For  a  fleeting  moment,  Desmond  was  out 
of  the  pictm-e;  but  when  time  was  ripe  he  would  be  in  it  again. 
The  link  between  them  was  indestructible  —  elemental.  Poet 
and  Warrior;  the  eternal  complements.  In  the  Rig  Veda  ^  both 
are  one;  both  Agni  Kula  —  'born  of  jQre';  no  fubess  of  life  for 
the  one  without  the  other. 

The  years  dominated  by  Desmond  had  been  supreme.  They 
had  left  school  together,  when  Roy  was  seventeen;  and,  at  the 
tune,  their  parting  had  seemed  like  the  end  of  everything.  Yet, 
very  soon  after,  he  had  found  hunself  in  the  thick  of  fresh 
delight  —  a  wander-year  in  Italy,  Greece,  the  Mediterranean, 
with  the  parents  and  Christine  — 

And  now,  here  he  was,  nearing  the  end  of  the  Oxford  interlude 
—  dommated  by  Dyan  and  India;  and,  not  least,  by  Oxford  her- 
self, who  counts  her  lovers  by  the  million;  holds  them  for  the 
space  of  three  or  four  years  and  sets  her  impress  for  life  on  their 
mmds  and  hearts.  For  all  his  dreamings  and  scribblings,  he  had 
played  hard  and  worked  hard.  In  the  coiu-se  of  readmg  for 
Greats,  he  had  imbibed  large  draughts  of  the  classics,  the  'books 
that  show,  contam,  and  nourish  all  the  world.'  He  had  browsed 
widely  on  later  literature.  East  and  West;  won  the  Newcastle, 
and  filled  a  vellum-bound  volume  —  his  mother's  gift  —  with 
verse  and  sketches  in  prose,  some  of  which  had  appeared  in  the 
more  exclusive  weeklies.  He  had  also  picked  up  Hindustani 
from  Dy£n  and  looked  forward  to  tackling  Sanskrit.  In  the 
Schools,  he  had  taken  a  First  in  Mods;  and,  with  reasonable 
luck,  hoped  for  a  First  in  the  Finals.  Once  again,  parting  would 
be  a  wrench,  but  India  glowed  like  a  planet  on  the  horizon;  and 
he  fully  intended  to  make  that  mterlude  the  pick  of  them  all . . . 
What  novels  he  would  write!  Not  modem  impressionist  stuff; 
not  mean  streets  and  the  photographic  touch.  No  —  his  adven- 
turing soul,  with  its  tinge  of  Eastern  mysticism,  craved  colour  and 
warmth  and  light;  not  the  mere  trappings  of  romance,  but  the 
*  Ancieut  Hindu  scriptures. 


94  FAR  TO  SEEK 

essence  of  it  that  imparts  a  deeper  sense  of  the  significance  and 
mystery  of  life;  that  probes  to  the  very  mainsprings  of  personal- 
ity, the  veiled  yet  intensely  vital  world  of  spiritual  adventure. 
Pain  and  conflict;  powers  of  evil,  of  doubt  and  indecision:  —  no 
evading  these.  But  in  any  imaginative  work  he  essayed,  beauty 
must  be  the  prevailmg  element  —  if  only  as  a  star  in  darkness. 
And  nowadays  Beauty  had  become  ahnost  suspect.  Cleverness, 
cynicism,  sex,  and  sensation  —  aU  had  then-  votaries  and  their 
vogue.  Mere  beauty,  like  Cinderella,  was  left  sitting  among  the 
ashes  of  the  past;  and  Roy— prince  or  no— was  her  devout  lover. 
To  the  son  of  Nevil  and  Lilamani,  her  clear  call  could  never 
seem  either  a  puritanical  snare  of  the  flesh,  or  a  delusion  of  the 
senses;  but  rather  a  grace  of  the  spkit,  the  joy  of  things  seen  de- 
tached from  self-interest:  the  visible  proof  that  love,  not  power, 
is  the  last  word  of  Creation.  Happily  for  hun,  its  outward  form 
and  inward  essence  had  been  his  daily  bread  ever  smce  he  had 
first  consciously  looked  upon  his  mother's  face,  consciously  de- 
lighted m  his  father's  pictures.  They  lived  it,  those  two:  and 
the  life  lived  transcends  argimient. 

At  this  uplifted  moment  —  whatever  might  come  later  —  he 
blessed  them  for  his  double  heritage;  for  the  perfect  accord  be- 
tween them  that  inspired  his  hope  of  ultunate  harmony  between 
England  and  India,  in  spite  of  barriers  and  complexities  and 
secret  fomenters  of  discord;  a  harmony  that  could  never  arrive 
by  veiled  condescension  out  of  servile  imitation.  Intimacy  with 
Dyan,  and  his  mother,  had  made  that  quite  clear.  Each  must 
honestly  will  to  understand  the  other;  each  holding  fast  the  es- 
sence of  individuality,  whHe  respecting  in  the  other  precisely 
those  baffling  quaHties  that  strengthen  their  union  and  make  it 
vital  to  the  welfare  of  both.  Instinctively  he  pictured  them  as 
man  and  woman;  and  on  general  Imes  the  analogy  seemed  to 
hold  good.  He  had  yet  to  discover  that  analogies  are  often  de- 
ceptive things;  peculiarly  so,  in  this  case,  since  India  is  many,  not 
one.  Yet  there  lurked  a  germ  of  truth  in  his  seedling  idea:  and 
he  was  at  the  age  when  ideas  and  tremendous  impulses  stir  in 
the  blood  like  sap  m  sprmg-time;  an  age  to  be  a  reformer,  a 
fanatic,  or  a  sensualist. 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  95 

Too  often,  alas,  before  the  years  bring  power  of  adjustment, 
the  live  spark  of  enthusiasm  is  extinct.  . . . 

To-night  it  burned  in  Roy  with  a  steady  flame.  If  only  he 
could  enthuse  his  father — ! 

He  supposed  he  would  go  in  any  case:  but  he  lacked  the 
rebel  instinct  of  modern  youth.  He  wanted  to  share,  to  impart 
his  hidden  treasure;  not  to  argue  the  bloom  ofif  it.  And  his 
father  seemed  tacitly  to  discourage  rhapsodies  over  Indian 
literature  and  art.  You  couldn't  say  he  was  not  keen:  only 
the  least  little  bit  miresponsive  to  outbursts  of  keenness  in  his 
son;  so  that  Roy  never  felt  quite  at  ease  on  the  subject.  If  only 
he  could  walk  into  the  room  now,  while  Roy's  brain  was  seething 
with  it  all,  high  on  the  upward  curve  of  a  wave  . . . 


Chapter  TV 

You  could  humble  at  your  feet  the  proudest  heads  in  the  world. 
But  it  is  your  loved  ones  . . .  whom  you  choose  to  worship,  therefore 
I  worship  you. 

Rabindeanath  Tagoee 

Roy,  after  due  consideration,  decided  that  he  would  speak  first 
to  his  father — the  one  doubtful  element  in  the  home  circle.  But 
habit  and  the  obsession  of  the  moment  proved  too  strong,  when 
his  mother  came  to  'tuck  him  up,'  as  she  had  never  failed  to 
do  since  nursery  days. 

Seated  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  m  the  shaded  light,  she  looked 
like  some  rare,  pale  moth  in  her  moon-coloured  sari  flecked  and 
bordered  with  gold;  amber  earrings  and  a  rope  of  amber  beads 
—  his  own  gift;  first  fruits  of  poetic  earnings.  The  years  be- 
tween had  ripened  and  embellished  her;  rounded  a  little  the 
oval  of  her  cheek;  lent  an  added  dignity  to  her  grace  of  bearing 
and  enriched  her  wisdom  of  the  heart. 

It  was  as  he  supposed.  She  had  understood  his  thoughts  long 
before.  He  flung  out  his  hand  —  a  fine,  nervous  hand  —  and 
laid  it  on  her  knee. 

"You're  a  miracle.  I  believe  you  know  all  about  it." 

"  I  believe  —  I  do,"  she  answered,  letting  her  own  hand  rest  on 
his;  moving  her  fingers,  now  and  then,  in  the  ghost  of  a  caress:  — 
an  endearmg  way  she  had.  "  You  are  wishing— to  go  out  there?  " 

"Yes.  I  simply  must.   Fo«  vmderstand? " 

She  inclined  her  head  and,  for  a  moment,  veiled  her  eyes.  "I 
am  proud.  But  you  cannot  understand  how  diflScult ...  for  us 
, .  .  letting  you  go.  And  Dad  . . ." 

"You'll  think  he'll  hate  it  —  want  to  keep  me  here?" 

"My  darling  —  'hate'  is  too  strong.  He  cares  very  much  for 
all  that  makes  friendship  between  England  and  India.  But  —  is 
it  wonder  if  he  cares  more  for  his  own  son?  You  will  speak  to  him 
soon? " 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  97 

"To-morrow.  Unless  —  a  word  or  two,  first,  from  you  —  " 
''No,  not  that!"    She  smiled  at  his  old  boyish  faith  in  her. 
"Better  to  keep  me  outside.   You  see  —  I  am  India.   So  I  am 
already  too  much  in  it  that  way." 

"You  are  in  it  up  to  the  hilt!"  he  declared  with  sudden  fer- 
vour: and  —  his  tongue  unloosed  —  he  poured  out  to  her  a  meas- 
ure of  his  pent-up  feelings;  how  they  had  inspired  him  —  she 
and  his  father  —  how  he  naturally  hoped  they  would  back  him 
up;  and  a  good  deal  more,  that  was  for  her  private  ear  alone  .  .  . 

Her  immense  capacity  for  listening,  her  eloquent  silence  and 
gentle  flashes  of  raillery,  her  occasional  caress  —  all  were  balm 
to  him  in  his  electrical  mood  .  .  .  Were  ever  two  beings,  he  won- 
dered, quite  so  perfectly  in  tune  —  ?  Could  he  possibly  leave  her, 
when  it  came  to  the  final  wrench? 

When,  at  last,  she  stooped  to  kiss  him,  the  faint  clean  whiff  of 
sandalwood  waked  a  hundred  memories,  and  he  held  her  close  a 
long  time,  her  cheek  against  his  hair. 

"Bad  boy!  Let  me  go!"  she  pleaded. 

With  phenomenal  obedience  he  unclasped  his  hands.  "See  if 
you  can  go  —  now!" 

It  was  his  old,  childish  game.  The  moment  she  stirred  his 
hands  were  locked  again. 

"Son  of  my  heart  —  I  must!" 

"One  more  kiss  then  —  for  luck!" 

So  she  kissed  him,  for  luck,  and  left  him  to  his  midnight 
browsings  . , . 

Next  morning  she  sat  among  her  cushions  in  the  studio,  os- 
tensibly reading  a  long  letter  from  her  father.  Actually,  her  mind 
was  intent  on  Nevil,  who  stood  at  his  easel  absorbed  in  fragmen- 
tary studies  for  a  new  picture  —  flying  draperies;  a  man's  face 
cleverly  foreshortened. 

Though  nearing  fifty,  he  looked  more  like  five-and-thirty;  his 
face  singularly  free  of  lines;  his  fair  hair  scarcely  showing  the  in- 
trusion of  grey.  To  her  he  seemed  perennially  young;  and  dearer 
than  ever  —  if  that  could  be  —  as  the  years  mellowed  and  deep- 
ened the  love  on  which  they  had  boldly  staked  everything  that 


98  '  FAR  TO  SEEK 

counted  most  for  them  both.  Yet,  for  all  her  skill  in  divination, 
she  could  not  tell  precisely  how  he  would  take  the  things  Roy  had 
to  say;  nor  whether  Roy  himself  would  say  them  in  just  the  right 
way.  With  Nevil,  so  much  depended  on  that. 

Till  this  morning,  she  had  scarcely  realised  how  unobtrusively 
she  had  been,  as  it  were,  their  connecting  link  in  all  difficult  or 
delicate  matters,  where  their  natures  were  not  quite  in  tune. 
But  now,  Roy  being  a  man,  they  must  come  to  terms  in  their 
own  fashion  ... 

At  the  first  far-off  sound  of  his  step  on  the  stairs,  she  rose  and 
came  over  to  the  easel,  and  stood  there  a  few  moments  — 
fascinated  always  by  the  swift,  sure  strokes. 

.« Good  —  eh?"  he  asked,  smiling  mto  her  serious  eyes. 
She  nodded.  "Quite  evident  — you  are  in  the  mood!"  Her 
fingers  lightly  caressed  the  back  of  his  hand.  "I  will  come  back 
later.  Such  a  tray  of  vases  waiting  for  me  in  the  drawing-rooni! " 
As  Roy  entered,  she  passed  him  and  they  exchanged  a  smile. 
Her  eyes,  mutely  blessing  him,  besought  him  not  to  let  his  eager 
tongue  run  away  with  itself.  Then  she  went  out,  leaving  them 
together  —  the  two  who  were  her  world. 

Down  in  the  drawing-room,  flowers,  cut  by  Christine  —  her 
fairy  daughter  —  lay  ready  to  hand.  Between  them  they  filled 
the  lofty  room  with  fragrance  and  delicate  colour.  Then  Chris- 
tine flew  to  her  beloved  piano;  and  Lilamani  wandered  away  to 
her  no  less  beloved  rose  garden.  Body  and  mind  were  restless. 
She  could  settle  to  nothing  till  she  knew  what  had  passed  be- 
tween Nevil  and  Roy.  His  boyish  confidences  and  adorations  of 
the  night  before  had  filled  her  cup  to  overflowing.  She  felt  glad 
and  proud  that  her  first  born  should  have  set  his  heart  on  the 
high  project  of  trying  to  promote  deeper  sympathy  between  his 
father's  great  country  and  her  own  people,  in  this  time  of  danger- 
ous antagonism  and  unrest. 

But  beneath  her  pride  and  gladness  stirred  a  fear  lest  the  scales 
she  had  tried  to  hold  even  should  be  inclining  to  tflt  the  wrong 
way  For  duty  to  his  father's  house  was  paramount.  Too  strong 
a  leaning  towards  India  —  no  matter  for  what  high  purpose  — 
would  still  be  a  tUt  the  wrong  way.  She  had  seen  the  same  fear 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  99 

lurking  in  Nevil's  heart  also;  and  now,  unerringly,  she  divined 
the  cause  of  that  hidden  trouble  which  baflBed  Roy,  Nevil  feared 
that,  if  Roy  went  to  India,  history  might  repeat  itself.  She  ad- 
mitted the  danger  was  real;  and  she  knew  his  fear  implied  no  re- 
flection on  herself  or  her  country.  Best  of  all  she  knew  that  — 
because  of  his  chivahous  loyalty  that  had  never  failed  her  —  he 
would  not  speak  of  it,  even  to  his  son. 

Clearly,  then,  if  Roy  insisted  on  gomg  to  India,  and  if  a  word 
of  warning  must  be  spoken  to  ease  Nevil's  mind,  only  one  per- 
son in  the  world  could  speak  it  —  herself.  For  all  her  sensitive 
shrinking  she  could  not,  at  this  critical  turning-point,  stand  out- 
side. She  was  'in  it'  —  as  Roy  dramatically  assured  her  —  up  to 
the  hilt ..  . 

Time  passed  —  and  he  did  not  come.  Troubled,  she  wandered 
back  towards  the  house;  caught  sight  of  him,  lonely  and  ab- 
stracted, pacing  the  lawn;  saw  him  stop  near  the  great  twin 
beeches  —  that  embowered  a  hammock,  chairs,  and  rugs  —  and 
disappear  inside.  Then  she  knew  her  moment  had  come  . . . 

She  found  him  lying  in  the  hammock;  not  even  smoking; 
staring  up  into  the  cool  green  dome,  fretted  with  graceful  con- 
volutions of  trunk  and  branches.  One  lightly  clenched  hand  hung 
over  the  edge.  Attitude  and  abstraction  alike  suggested  a  listless 
dejection  that  sharply  caught  at  her  heart. 

He  started  at  sight  of  her.  "Blessed  little  Mummy  —  no 
hiding  from  youl" 

He  flung  out  his  left  hand.  She  took  it  and  laid  it  against  her 
cheek ;  a  form  of  caress  all  her  own. 

"Were  you  wishing  to  hide?  I  was  waiting  among  the  roses, 
to  show  you  the  new  sweet  peas." 

"And  I  never  came.  Proper  beast  I  am!  And  sprawling 
here  —  "  He  swung  his  long  legs  over  the  side  and  stood  up,  tall 
and  straight  —  taller  than  Nevil  —  smiling  down  at  her.  "I 
wasn't  exactly  hiding.  I  was  shirking  —  a  little  bit.  But  now 
you've  found  me,  you  won't  escape!" 

Pressing  down  the  edge  of  the  hammock,  he  half  lifted  her  into 
it  and  settled  her  among  the  cushions,  deftly  tucking  in  her 
silks  and  muslins. 


100  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Comfy?"  he  asked,  surveying  her,  with  Ne\'irs  own  smile  in 

his  eyes. 

"Comfy,"  she  sighed,  wishing  discreet  warnings  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea.  Just  to  be  foolish  with  him  —  the  bliss  of  it!  To 
chime  in  with  his  moods,  his  enthusiasms,  his  nonsense  —  she 
asked  nothing  better  of  life,  when  he  came  home.  "Very  clever, 
Sonling.  But  no— "  She  lifted  a  finger.  "  That  won't  do.  You 
are  twenty-one.  Too  big  for  the  small  name  now.  So  far  away 
up  there!" 

"If  I  shot  up  as  high  as  a  lamp-post,  my  heart  would  still  be 
down  there  —  at  your  feet." 

He  said  it  lightly  —  that  was  the  Englishman.  But  he  said 
it  —  that  was  the  Rajput.  And  she  knew  not  which  she  loved  the 
best.  Strange  to  love  two  such  opposites  with  equal  fervour. 

She  blew  hun  a  kiss  from  her  finger-tips.  "Very  well.  We  wUl 
not  be  unkind  to  the  small  name  and  throw  him  on  the  rubbish 
heap.  But  now  sit,  please  —  Sonling.  You  have  been  talking  — 
you  and  Dad?  Not  any  decision?  Is  he  not  wishing  you  should 
—  work  for  India?  " 

"Mummy,  I  don't  know."  He  secured  a  chair  and  sat  down 
facing  her.   "He  says  he's  not  the  kind  of  father  who  thunders 
vetoes  from  the  family  hearthrug!  All  the  same  —  I  gather  he's 
distinctly  not  keen  on  my  going  out  there.  So  —  what  the  devil 
am  I  to  do?  He  insists  that  I'm  full  young  —  no  hurry  —  but 
I  feel  there's  something  else  at  the  back  of  his  mind." 
He  paused  —  and  she  could  hesitate  no  longer. 
"Yes,  Roy  —  there  is  something  else  —  " 
"Then  why  can't  he  speak  out?" 

"Not  to  be  so  impatient,"  she  rebuked  him  gently.  "It  is 
because  he  so  beautifully  remains  —  my  lover,  he  cannot  put  in 
words  —  any  thought  that  might  give  —  "  She  flung  out  an 
appealing  hand.  "Oh,  Roy  — can  you  not  guess  the  trouble? 
He  is  afraid  —  for  your  marriage  —  " 

"My  marriage!"  It  was  clear  he  did  not  yet  grasp  the  truth. 
"Really,  Mummy,  that's  a  trifle  previous.  I'm  not  even  think- 
ing of  marriage." 

"  No,  Stupid  One!  But  out  there  you  might  come  to  thmk  of 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  loi 

it.  No  man  can  teU  when  Kama,  godling  of  the  arrows,  wfll 
throw  magic  dust  in  his  eyes.  You  might  meet  other  cousins  — 
hke  Aruna;  and  there  would  come  trouble,  because"  — she 
faced  him^steadily  and  he  saw  the  veiled  blush  creep  into  her 
cheeks  —    that  kind  of  marriage  —  for  you  —  must  not  be  " 

Now  he  understood;  and,  for  all  her  high  resolve,  she  thrilled 
at  the  swift  flash  of  anger  in  his  eyes. 

"Who  says  —  it  must  not  be?"  he  demanded  with  a  touch  of 
heat.  Aunt  Jane  —  confound  her!  When  I  do  marry,  it  will 
be  to  please  myself  —  not  her!" 

"Oh,  hush,  Roy  —  and  listen!  You  run  away  too  fast.  It  is 
not  Aunt  Jane  — it  is  /  who  am  saying  must  not,  because  I 
know  —  the  difficult  thought  in  Dad's  heart.  And  I  know  it  is 
right  —  " 

"Why  is  it  right?"  He  was  up  in  arms  again.  Obstinate  — 
but  how  loveable!  —  "Why  mayn't  I  have  the  same  luck  as  he 

,7^'^,  i^  "^^""^^  ""^  ^^y*"  ^'^^  ^^^^^  "^^^  a  g""l  or  woman  that 
could  hold  a  candle  to  you  for  aU-round  loveUness.  And  it's  the 
East  that  gives  you  —  inside  and  out  —  a  quaUty,  a  bloom  — 
unseizable  —  like  moonlight  —  " 

"But,  my  darling!  You  make  me  blush!"  She  drew  her  sari 
across  her  face;  hiding,  under  a  veU  of  lightness,  her  joy  at  his 
outspoken  praise. 

"Well,  you  made  me  say  iti  And  I'm  not  sentimentaUsing. 
I  m  tellmg  a  home  truth! " 

His  vehemence  was  guarantee  of  that.  Very  gently  he  drew 
back  the  sari  and  looked  deep  into  her  eyes. 

"Why  should  we  only  tell  the  ugly  ones,  like  Aunt  Jane?  Any- 
way, I've  told  you  my  truest  one  now  —  and  I'm  not  ashamed 

of  It." 
"No  need.  It  is  a  jewel  I  will  treasure  in  my  heart." 
She  dropped  the  veU  of  lightness,  giving  him  sincerity  for  sin- 
centy  as  he  deserved.   "But  —  Ancient  One,  have  you  seen  so 
many  girls  and  women  in  your  long  life  — ?" 

"I've  seen  a  pretty  good  mixture  of  all  sorts  —  Oxford,  Lon- 
don, and  round  here,"  he  insisted,  unabashed.  "And  I've  had 
my  wits  about  me.   Of  course  they're  most  of  them  jolly  and 


I02  FAR  TO  SEEK 

straight.  Good  fellows,  in  fact;  talking  our  slang;  playing  our 
games.  No  harm,  of  course.  But  it  kills  the  charm  of  contrast  — 
the  supreme  charm.  They  understand  that  in  India  better  than 
we  do  here." 

The  truth  of  that  last  Lilamani  could  not  deny.  Too  clearly 
she  saw  in  the  violent  upheaval  of  Western  womanhood  the 
hidden  germs  of  tragedy,  for  women  themselves,  for  the  race. 

"You  are  right,  Roy,"  she  said,  smiling  into  his  serious  face. 
"From  our  — from  Hindu  point  of  view,  greatest  richness  of 
life  comes  from  greatest  possible  difference  between  men  and 
women.  And  most  of  all  it  is  so  in  Rajputana.  But  over  here  . .  " 
She  sighed,  a  small,  shivering  sigh.  The  puzzle  and  pain  of  it 
went  too  deep  with  her.  "All  this  screaming  and  snatching  and 
scratching  for  wrong  kind  of  things  hurts  my  heart;  because  —  I 
am  woman  and  they  are  women  —  desecrating  that  in  us  which 
is  a  symbol  of  God.  Nature  made  women  for  ministering  to  Life 
and  Love.  Are  they  not  believing,  or  not  caring,  that  by  strug- 
gling to  imitate  man  (while  saying  with  their  lips  how  they  de- 
spise him!)  they  are  losing  their  own  secret,  beautiful  differ- 
ences, so  important  for  happiness  —  for  the  race?  But  marriage 
in  the  West  seems  more  for  convenience  of  lovers  than  for  the 

race  —  " 

"Yet  your  son,  though  he  is  of  the  West  —  must  not  consider 
his  own  inclination  or  convenience  — " 

"My  son,"  she  interposed,  gently  inflexible,  "because  he  is 
also  of  the  East,  must  consider  this  matter  of  the  race;  must  try 
and  think  it  with  his  father's  mind." 

"All  the  same  —  making  such  a  point  of  it  seems  like  an  m- 

sult  —  to  you  — " 

"No,  Roy.  Not  to  say  that  —  "  The  flash  in  her  eyes,  that  was 
ahnost 'anger,  startled  and  impressed  him  more  than  any  spoken 
word.  "No  thought  that  ever  came  in  your  father's  mind  could 
be  —  like  insult  to  me.  Oh,  my  dear,  have  you  not  sense  to  see 
that  for  an  old  English  family  like  his,  with  roots  down  deep  in 
English  soil  and  history,  it  is  not  good  that  mixture  of  race  should 
come  twice  over  in  two  generations?  To  you  —  our  kind  of  mar, 
riage  appears  a  simple  affair.  You  see  only  how  close  we  are  now, 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  103 

in  love  and  understanding.  You  cannot  imagine  all  the  diffi- 
culties that  went  before.  We  know  them  —  and  we  are  proud, 
because  they  became  like  dust  under  our  feet.  Only  to  you  — 
Dilkusha,^  I  could  tell ...  a  little,  if  you  wish  —  for  helping  you 
to  understand." 

"Please  tell,"  he  said,  and  his  hand  closed  on  hers. 

So,  leaning  back  among  her  cushions  —  speaking  very  simply 
in  the  low  voice  that  was  music  to  his  ears  —  she  told  .  .  . 

The  telling  —  fragmentary,  yet  vivid  —  lasted  less  than  half 
an  hour.  But  in  that  half-hour  she  revealed  more  than  she  real- 
ised of  herself,  of  the  man  she  loved;  and  Roy  gleaned  a  jewel  of 
memory  that  the  years  would  not  dim.  The  very  words  would 
remain . . . 

Yet  in  spite  of  that  revealing  —  because  of  it  —  rebellion 
stirred  afresh.  And,  as  if  divining  his  thoughts,  she  impulsively 
raised  her  hand.  "Now,  Roy,  you  must  promise.  Only  so,  I  can 
speak  to  Dad  and  rest  his  mind." 

Seizing  her  hand,  he  kissed  it  fervently. 

"Darling  —  after  all  that,  a  mere  promise  would  be  a  fatuous 
superfluity.  If  you  say,  *No  Indian  wife,'  that's  enough  for  me. 
I  suppose  I  must  rest  content  with  the  high  privilege  of  possessing 
an  Indian  mother." 

Her  radiant  surprise  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  see.  Leaning 
forward,  she  took  his  head  in  her  hands  and  kissed  him  between 
his  eyebrows  where  the  caste  mark  should  be. 

"Must  it  be  October  —  so  soon?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her  of  Dyan,  and  she  sighed.  "PoorDydn!  I  wonder? 
It  is  so  difficult  —  even  with  the  best  kind  —  this  mixing  of 
English  education  and  Indian  life.  I  hope  it  will  make  no  harm 
for  those  two  — " 

Then  they  started,  almost  like  lovers;  for  the  drooping  branches 
rustled  and  Tara  stood  before  them  —  a  very  vision  of  June;  in 
her  straight  frock  of  delphinium  blue;  one  shell-pink  rose  in  her 
hat  and  its  counterpart  in  her  waist-belt.  Canvas  shoes  and 
tennis  racquet  betrayed  her  fell  design  on  Roy. 

"Am  I  despritly  superfluous?"  she  queried,  smiling  from  one  to 
the  other. 

*  Joy  of  my  Heart. 


I04  FAR  TO  SEEK 

'    "Quite  too  despritly,"  Roy  assured  her  with  emphasis. 

She  wrinkled  her  nose  at  him,  so  far  as  its  delicate  aquiline 
would  permit.   "Speak  for  yourself,  spoilt  boy!" 

But  she  favoured  him  with  her  left  hand,  which  he  retained, 
while  she  stooped  over  the  hammock  and  kissed  Lilamani  on 
both  cheeks.  Then  she  stood  up  and  gently  disengaged  her  hand. 

"  Christine's  to  blame.  She  guessed  you  were  here.  I  came  in 
hopes  of  tennis.  It's  just  perfect.  Not  too  hot." 

"Still  more  perfect  in  here,  lazing  with  Mummy,"  said  grace- 
less Roy. 

"I  disown  you;  I  am  ashamed!"  Lilamani  rebuked  him  only 
half  in  jest.  "  No  more  lazing  now.  I  have  done  with  you.  Only 
you  have  to  get  me  out  of  this." 

They  got  her  out,  between  them;  fussed  over  her  and  laughed 
at  her;  and  then  went  oflf  together  for  Roy's  racquet. 

She  stood  in  the  silvery  sunlight  watching  them  till  they  dis- 
appeared round  the  corner  of  the  house.  Not  surprising  that 
Nevil  said  —  *No  hurry!'  If  he  would  only  wait ...  I  He  was 
still  too  young,  too  much  in  love  with  India  —  with  herself.  Yet, 
had  he  already  begun  inditing  sonnets,  even  to  the  most  accept- 
able eyebrow,  her  perverse  heart  would  doubtless  have  known  the 
prick  of  jealousy  —  as  in  Desmond's  day. 

Instead  she  suddenly  knew  the  first  insidious  prick  of  middle 
age;  felt  dazzled,  for  a  mere  moment,  by  the  careless  radiance  of 
their  youth;  to  them  an  unconsidered  thing;  but  to  those  who 
feel  it  relentlessly  slipping  through  their  fingers  .  .  . 

Her  small  fine  hands  clenched  in  unconscious  response  to  her 
thought.  She  was  nearing  forty.  In  her  own  land  she  would  be 
reckoned  almost  an  old  woman.  But  some  magic  in  the  air  and 
way  of  life  in  this  cool,  green  England  seemed  to  keep  age  at  bay: 
and  there  remained  within  a  flame-like  youth  of  the  spirit  —  not 
so  easy  for  even  the  Arch-Thief  to  steal  away  . . . 


Chapter  V 

The  bow  saiih  to  the  arrow,  "Thy  freedom  is  mine." 

Rabindeanath  Tagoke 

And  while  Lilimani  reasoned  with  the  son  —  whose  twofold 
nature  they  had  themselves  bestowed  and  inspired  —  Nevil  was 
pacing  his  shrine  of  all  the  harmonies,  heart  and  brain  dis- 
turbed as  they  had  not  been  for  years  — 

Out  of  the  troubled  waters  of  family  friction  and  delicate  ad- 
justments, this  adventurous  pair  had  sUd  into  a  haven  of  peace 
and  mutual  understanding.  And  now,  behold,  fresh  portent  of 
trouble  arising  from  the  dual  strain  in  Roy  —  the  focal  point 
of  their  life  and  love. 

Turning  in  his  stride,  his  eyes  encountered  a  head  and  shoul- 
ders portrait  of  his  father,  Sir  George  Sinclair:  an  honest,  bluff, 
unimaginative  face:  yet  suddenly,  arrestingly,  it  commanded 
his  attention.  Checking  his  walk,  he  stood  regarding  it:  and  his 
heart  went  out  to  the  kindly  old  man  in  a  quite  unusual  wave 
of  S3anpathetic  understanding.  He  saw  himself  —  the  'damned 
unsatisfactory  son,'  Bohemian  and  dilettante,  frankly  at  odds 
with  the  Sinclair  tradition  —  now  standing,  more  or  less,  in  that 
father's  shoes;  his  heart  centred  on  the  old  place  and  on  the  boy 
for  whom  he  held  it  in  trust;  and  the  irony  of  it  twisted  his  lips 
into  a  rueful  smile.  By  his  own  over-concentration  on  Roy,  and 
his  secret  dread  of  the  Indian  obsession,  he  could  gauge  what  his 
own  father  must  have  suffered  in  an  aggravated  form,  blind  as 
he  was  to  any  point  of  view  save  his  own.  And  there  was  Roy  — 
like  himself  in  the  twenties,  but  how  much  more  purposeful!  — 
drawn  irresistibly  by  the  lure  of  the  horizon;  a  lure  bristling 
with  dangers  the  more  insidious  because  they  sprang  from  the 
blood  in  his  veins. 

Yet  a  word  of  warning,  spoken  at  the  wrong  moment,  in  the 
wrong  tone,  might  be  disastrously  misunderstood;  and  the  dis- 
tracting sense  of  being  purely  responsible  for  his  own  trouble 


io6  FAR  TO  SEEK 

stung  him  to  renewed  irritation.  All  capacity  for  work  had  been 
dispelled  by  that  vexatiously  engaging  son  of  his,  with  his  heart 
in  India  and  his  head  among  the  stars  ... 

Weary  of  pacing,  he  took  out  his  pipe  and  sat  down  in  the 
window-seat  to  fill  it.  He  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  an  un- 
mistakeable  footstep;  and  the  response  of  his  whole  being  justi- 
fied to  admiration  Lilamani's  assurance  that  his  hidden  trouble 
implied  no  lightest  reflection  on  herself.  Lilamani  and  irritation 
simply  could  not  co-exist  within  him;  and  he  was  on  his  feet 
when  she  opened  the  door. 

She  did  not  come  forward  at  once.  Pushing  it  shut  with  both 
hands,  she  stood  so  —  a  hovering  question  in  her  eyes.  It  re- 
called, with  a  tender  pang,  the  earlier  days  of  worshipful  aloof- 
ness, when  only  by  special  mvitation  would  she  intunately  ap- 
proach her  lord. 

That  she  might  guess  his  thought  he  held  out  his  arms.  "  Come 
along  —  English  wife  1" 

It  had  been  their  private  password.  But  her  small  teeth  im- 
prisoned her  lip. 

"No  —  King  of  me  —  Indian  wife:  making  too  much  trouble 

again!" 

"Lilamani!  How  dare  you!  Come  here." 

His  attempt  at  sternness  took  effect.  In  one  swift  rush  — sar* 
blown  backward  —  she  came:  and  he,  smitten  sharply  with  self- 
reproach,  folded  her  close;  while  she  clung  to  hun  in  mute,  pas- 
sionate response. 

"Beloved,"  she  whispered.  "Not  to  worry  any  more  in  your 
secret  heart.  I  told  —  he  understands." 

<'Roy_?  My  darling!  But  what—}''  His  incoherence  was 
a  shameless  admission  of  relief.  *' You  couldn't  —  you  haven't 
told  him  —  ?" 

"Nevil,  I  have  told  him  all.  I  saw  lately  this  trouble  in  your 
thoughts:  and  to-day  it  came  in  my  mind  that  only  I  could  speak 
—  could  give  command  that  —  one  kind  of  marriage  must  nol 

be." 

He  drew  her  closer,  and  she  suppressed  a  small  sigh. 
/'Wasn't  the  boy  angry?" 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  '  107 

"  Only  at  first  —  on  account  of  me.  He  is  —  so  very  darling,  so 
worshipping  —  his  foolish  little  mother." 

"A  weakness  he  shares  with  his  father,"  Nevil  assured  her: 
and  in  that"  whispered  confession  she  had  her  reward.  For 
after  twenty-three  years  of  marriage,  the  note  of  loverly  ex- 
travagance is  as  rare  as  the  note  of  the  cuckoo  in  July 

"Sit,  little  woman."  He  drew  her  down  to  the  window-seat, 
keeping  an  arm  round  her.  "  The  relief  it  is  to  feel  I  can  talk  it  all 
over  with  you,  freely.  Where  the  dickens  would  we  be,  Roy  and  I, 
without  our  interpreter?  And  she  does  it  all  unbeknownst;  like  a 
Brownie.  I  have  been  worrying  lately.  The  boy's  clean  gone  on 
his  blessed  idea.  No  reasoning  with  him;  and  the  modern  father 
doesn't  venture  to  command!  It's  as  much  as  his  place  is 
worth!  Yet  we  see  the  hidden  dangers  clearer  than  he  can. 
Wouldn't  it  be  wiser  to  apply  the  curb  discreetly  before  he  slips 
off  into  an  atmosphere  where  all  the  influences  will  tug  one 
way?" 

It  was  the  sane  masculine  wisdom  of  the  West.  But  hers  — 
that  was  feminine  and  of  the  East  —  went  deeper. 

"Perhaps  it  is  mother-weakness,"  she  said,  leaning  against  him 
and  looking  away  at  a  purple  cloud  that  hung  low  over  the  moor. 
"But  it  seems  to  me,  by  putting  on  the  curb,  you  keep  only  his 
body  from  those  influences.  They  would  tug  all  the  stronger 
in  his  soul.  Not  healthy  and  alive  with  joy  of  action,  but 
cramped  up  and  aching,  like  your  legs  when  there  is  no  room 
to  stretch  them.  Then  there  would  come  impatience,  turning 
his  heart  more  to  India,  more  away  from  you.  Father  had  that 
kind  of  thwarting  when  young  —  so  I  know.  Dearest  one,  am 
I  too  foolish?" 
"You  are  my  Wisest  of  Wise.  —  Is  there  more?" 
"Yes.  It  is  this.  Perhaps,  through  being  young  and  eager,  he 
will  make  mistakes;  wander  too  far.  But  even  if  he  should  wander 
to  farthest  end,  all  influence  will  not  tug  one  way.  He  will  carry 
in  his  heart  the  star  of  you  and  the  star  of  me.  These  will  shine 
brighter  if  he  knows  how  we  longed  —  for  ourselves  —  to  keep 
him  here;  yet,  for  himself,  we  let  him  go.  I  have  remembered  al- 
ways one  line  of  poetry  you  showed  me  at  Como.  'To  take  by 


108  FAR  TO  SEEK 

leaving,  to  hold  by  letting  go.'  That  is  trae  truth  for  many 
things.  But  for  parents  truest  of  all." 

High  counsel,  indeed!  Good  to  hear;  hard  to  act  upon.  Nevil 
Sinclair  —  knowing  they  would  act  upon  it  —  let  out  an  in- 
voluntary sigh  and  tightened  his  hold  of  the  gentle,  adoring 
woman  whose  spirit  towered  so  far  above  his  own. 

"Lilamani  —  you've  won,"  he  said,  after  a  perceptible  pause. 
"You  deserve  to  win  —  and  Roy  will  bless  you.  It's  the  high 
privilege  of  mothers,  I  suppose,  to  conjure  the  moon  out  of 
Heaven  for  their  sons." 

"Sometimes,  by  doing  so,  they  nearly  break  their  hearts," 
she  answered,  very  low. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "  Keep  yours  intact  —  for  me.  I 
shall  need  it."  Her  fingers  closed  convulsively  on  his  — "  England 
will  seem  sort  of  empty  —  without  Roy.  Is  he  dead  keen  on 
going  this  autumn?" 

"Yes  —  I  am  afraid.  A  little  because  of  young  impatience.  A 
little  because  he  is  troubled  over  Dyan;  and  he  has  much  influ- 
ence. There  are  so  many  now  in  India  dragged  two  ways." 

Nevil  sighed  again.  "Bless  the  boy!  It's  an  undeniable  risk. 
And  what  the  family  will  say  to  our  midsiunmer  madness,  God 
knows!  Jane  can  be  trusted  to  make  the  deuce  of  a  row.  And 
we  can't  even  smooth  matters  by  telling  her  of  our  private  pre- 
caution — " 

"No  —  not  one  little  word" 

Lilamani  sat  upright,  a  gleam  of  primitive  hate  in  her  eyes. 

Nevil  smiled,  in  spite  of  secret  dismay.  "  You  implacable  little 
smner!  Can't  you  ever  forgive  her  like  a  Christian?" 

"No  —  not  ever."  The  tense  quiet  of  her  tone  carried  con- 
viction. "Not  only  far-off  things,  I  can  never  forget  —  nearly 
killing  me  and  —  and  Roy.  But  because  she  is  always  stabbing 
at  me  with  sharp  words  and  ugly  thoughts.  She  cannot  ever  for- 
give that  I  am  here  —  that  I  make  you  happy,  which  she  could 
not  believe.  She  is  angry  to  be  put  m  the  wrong  by  mere  Hindu 
wife  —  "  She  paused  in  her  vehement  rush  of  speech:  saw  the 
look  in  Nevil's  face  that  recalled  an  earlier  day;  and  anger  van- 
ished like  a  light  blown  out.  "King  of  me  —  I  am  sorry.  Only 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  109 

—  it  is  true.  And  she  is  Christian  bom.  But  I  —  down  in  my 
deepest  places  I  am  still  —  Rajputni.  Just  the  same  as,  after 
twenty- three  years  of  English  wife,  I  am  still  in  my  heart  —  like 
the  'Queen  who  stood  erect'!" 

On  the  word  she  rose  and  confronted  him,  smiling  into  his 
troubled  eyes;  grace  of  girlhood  and  dignity  of  womanhood  ador- 
ably mingled  in  her  pose. 

"  Who  was  she? "  Nevil  asked,  willingly  lured  from  thoughts 
of  Jane. 

"  Careless  one!  Have  you  forgotten  the  story  of  my  Wonder- 
Woman  —  how  a  King,  loving  his  Queen  with  all  his  soul,  bowed 
himself  in  ecstasy  and  *  took  the  dust  of  her  feet '  in  presence  of 
other  wives  who,  from  jealousy,  cried:  'Shameless  one,  lift  up  the 
hands  of  the  King  to  your  head.'  But  the  Queen  stood  erect, 
smiling  gladly.  'Not  so:  for  both  feet  and  head  are  my  Lord's. 
Can  I  have  aught  that  is  mine? ' " 

The  swiftness  of  transition,  the  laughing  tenderness  of  her  eyes 
so  moved  him  —  and  so  potent  in  her  was  the  magical  essence  of 
womanhood  —  that  he.  Sir  Nevil  Sinclair,  Baronet,  of  Bramleigh 
Beeches,  came  near  to  taking  the  dust  of  her  feet  in  very  deed. 


Chapter  VI 

Qui  n^accepte  pas  le  regret,  n'accepte  pas  la  vie. 

Nevil's  fears  were  justified  to  the  full.  Lady  Roscoe  was  one  of 
those  exasperating  people  of  whom  one  can  predict,  almost  to  a 
word,  a  look,  what  their  attitude  will  be  on  any  given  occasion. 
So  Nevil,  who  shirked  a  'scene'  — above  all  when  conducted  by 
Jane  —  put  off  telling  her  the  unwelcome  news  as  long  as  he 
dared,  without  running  the  dire  risk  of  its  reaching  her '  round  the 
corner.' 

Meantime  he  was  fortified  and  cheered  by  a  letter  from  Cuth- 
bert  Broome  —  a  shrewd,  practical  letter  amounting  to  a  sober 
confession  of  faith  in  Roy,  the  embryo  writer,  as  in  Roy,  the 
budding  man. 

"  I  don't  minimise  the  risk,"  he  concluded,  with  his  accustomed 
frankness  (no  relation  to  the  engaging  candour  that  dances  a 
war-dance  on  other  people's  toes).  "  But,  on  broad  lines,  I  hereby 
record  my  conviction  that  the  son  of  you  two  and  the  grandson  of 
Sir  Lakshman  Singh  can  be  trusted  to  go  far  —  to  keep  his  head 
as  well  as  his  feet,  even  in  slippery  places.  He  is  eager  for  knowl- 
edge, for  work  along  his  own  lines.  If  you  dam  up  this  strong 
current,  it  may  find  other  outlets,  possibly  less  desirable.  I 
came  on  a  jewel  the  other  day.  As  it's  distinctly  applicable,  T 

pass  it  on.  .  i,    t, 

"'The  sole  wisdom  for  man  or  boy  who  is  haunted  with  the 
hovering  of  unseen  wings,  with  the  scent  of  unseen  roses,  and  the 
subtle  enticement  of  melodies  unheard,  is  work.  If  he  follow  any 
of  these,  they  vanish.  If  he  work,  they  will  come  unsought  .  .  .' 
"Well,  when  Roy  goes  out,  I  undertake  to  provide  him  with 
work  that  will  keep  his  brain  alert  and  his  pen  busy.  That's  my 
proposed  contribution  to  his  start  in  life;  and  —  though  I  say 
it!  — not  to  be  despised.  Tell  him  I'll  bear  down  upon  the 
Beeches  the  first  available  week-end  and  talk  both  your  heads 
off!  Yours  ever,  C.  B." 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  iii 

"After  that,^'  was  NevU's  heroic  conclusion,  "Jane  can  say 
what  she  damn  well  pleases." 

He  broke  the  news  to  her  forthwith  —  by  post;  the  usual 
expedient  of  those  who  shirk  'scenes.'  He  furthermore  took  the 
precaution  to  add  that  the  matter  was  finally  settled. 

She  replied  next  morning  —  by  wire.  "Cannot  understand. 
Coming  down  at  once." 

And,  in  record  time,  on  the  wings  of  her  new  travelling  car  — 
she  came. 

As  head  of  the  Sinclair  clan  —  in  years  and  worldly  wisdom, 
at  least  —  she  could  do  no  less.  From  her  point  of  view,  it  was 
Nevil's  clear  duty  to  discourage  the  Indian  strain  in  the  boy,  as 
far  as  that  sentimental,  headstrong  wife  of  his  would  permit. 
But  Nevil's  sense  of  duty  needed  constant  galvanising,  lest  it  die 
of  inanition.  It  was  her  sacred  mission  in  life  to  galvanise  it, 
especially  in  the  matter  of  Roy;  and  no  one  should  ever  say  she 
shirked  a  disagreeable  obligation.  It  may  safely  be  added  that 
no  one  ever  did! 

Nevil  —  who  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  be  elsewhere 

—  awaited  her  in  the  library:  and  at  the  first  shock  of  their 
encountering  glances,  he  stiffened  all  through.  He  was  apt  to 
be  restive  under  advice,  and  rebelhous  under  dictation;  facts 
none  knew  better  than  Jane,  who  throve  on  advice  and  dictation 

—  given,  not  received!  She  still  affected  the  neat  hard  coat  and 
skirt  and  the  neat  hard  summer  hat  that  had  so  distressed  the 
awakening  beauty-sense  of  nine-year-old  Roy:  only,  in  place 
of  the  fierce  wing  there  uprose  in  majesty  a  severely  wired  bow. 
Jane  was  so  unvarying,  outside  and  in;  a  worse  failing,  almost, 
in  the  eyes  of  this  hopelessly  artistic  household,  than  her  talent 
for  pouncing,  or  advising,  or  making  up  other  people's  minds. 

But  to-day,  as  she  glanced  round  the  familiar  room,  her  sigh  — 
half  anger,  half  bitterness  of  heart  —  was  genuine.  She  did  care 
intensely,  in  her  own  way,  for  the  brother  whom  she  hectored 
without  mercy.  And  he  too  cared  —  in  his  own  way  —  more  than 
he  chose  to  reveal.  But  their  love  was  a  dumb  thing,  rooted  in 
ancestral  mysteries.  Their  surface  clash  of  temperament  was 
more  loquacious. 


112  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"I  suppose  we're  fairly  safe  from  interruption?"  she  asked, 
with  ominous  emphasis;  and  Nevil  gravely  indicated  the  largest 
leather  chair. 

"I  believe  the  others  are  out,"  he  said,  half  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  writing-table  and  proceeding  to  light  a  cigarette.  "But, 
upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  why  you  put  yourself  out  to  come 
down  all  this  way  when  I  told  you  plainly  everythmg  was  fixed 

up." 

"You  thought  I'd  swallow  that  —  and  keep  my  mouth  shut?" 
she  retorted,  bristling  visibly.  '7'm  no  fool,  Nevil,  if  you  are. 
I  told  you  how  it  would  be,  when  you  went  out  in  '99.  You 
wouldn't  listen  then.  Perhaps  you'll  at  least  have  the  sense  to 
listen  now?  " 

Nevil  shrugged.  "  As  you've  come  all  this  way  for  the  satisfac- 
tion of  airing  your  views — I've  not  much  choice  in  the  matter." 

And  the  latitude,  thus  casually  given,  she  took  in  full  measure. 
For  twenty  minutes,  by  the  clock,  she  aired  her  views  in  a  stream 
of  vigorous  colloquial  English,  lapsing  into  ready-made  phrases 
of  melodrama,  common  to  the  normally  inexpressive,  in  moments 
of  excitement  .  . 

To  the  familiar  tuning-up  process,  Nevil  listened  unmoved. 
But  his  anger  rose  with  her  rising  eloquence:  —  the  unwilling 
anger  of  a  cool  man,  more  formidable  than  mere  temper. 

Such  fine  distinctions,  however,  were  unknown  to  Jane.  If  you 
were  in  a  temper,  you  were  in  a  temper.  That  was  flat.  And  she 
rather  wanted  to  rouse  Nevil's.  Heated  opposition  would  stiffen 
her  own  .  .  . 

"India  of  all  countries  in  the  world!"  she  culminated  — a 
desperate  note  invadmg  her  wrath.  "The  one  place  where  he 
should  not  be  allowed  to  sow  his  wild  oats  —  if  the  modern 
anaemic  young  man  has  enough  red  blood  in  his  veins,  for  that 
sort  of  thing.  And  it's  your  obvious  duty  to  be  quite  frank  with 
him  on  the  subject.  If  you  had  an  ounce  of  common  sense  in  your 
make-up,  you'd  see  it  for  yourself.  But  I  always  say  the  clever 
people  are  the  biggest  fools.  And  Roy's  in  the  same  boat  —  being 
your  son.  No  ballast.  AH  in  the  clouds.  That's  the  fruits  of  Lil's 
fancy  education.  And  you  can't  say  I  didn't  warn  you.  What  he 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  113 

needs  is  discipline  —  a  tight  hand.  Why  not  one  of  the  Services? 
If  he  gets  bitten  with  India  —  at  his  age,  it's  quite  on  the  cards 
that  he  may  go  turning  Hindu  —  or  even  repeat  your  folly  — " 
She  paused— simply  for  lack  of  breath— and  became  suddenly 
alive  to  the  set  stillness  of  her  brother's  face. 

''My  folly  —  as  you  are  pleased  to  call  it,"  he  said  with  con- 
centrated scorn,  "has  incidentally  made  our  name  famous,  and 
cleared  the  old  place  of  mortgage.  For  that  reason  alone  you 
might  have  the  grace  to  refrain  from  insulting  my  wife." 
She  flung  up  her  head,  like  a  horse  at  a  touch  of  the  curb. 
"Oh,  if  it's  an  insult  to  speak  the  simple  truth,  I'm  quite  out 
of  it.  I  never  could  call  spades  agricultural  implements:  and  I 
can't  start  new  habits  at  my  time  of  life.  I  don't  deny  you've 
made  a  good  thing  out  of  your  pictures.  But  no  one  in  their 
senses  could  call  your  marriage  an  act  of  wisdom." 

Nevil  winced  visibly.  "I  married  for  the  only  defensible  rea- 
son," he  said,  in  a  low,  controlled  voice.  "And  events  have  more 
than  justified  me." 

"Possibly  —  so  far  as  you're  concerned.  But  you  can't  get 
over  the  fact  that  —  even  if  Roy  marries  the  best  blood  of  Eng- 
land —  his  son  may  revert  to  type;  Dr.  Simons  tells  me  — " 

''Will  you  hold  your  tongue!"  Nevil  blazed  out,  in  a  white 
fury.  "I'll  thank  you  not  to  discuss  my  affairs  —  or  Roy's  — 
with  your  damned  doctor.  And  the  subject's  barred  between 
us  —  as  you're  very  well  aware." 

She  blenched  at  the  force  and  fire  of  his  unexpected  onslaught, 
never  dreaming  how  deeply  her  thrust  had  gone  home. 

"Goodness  knows  it's  as  pamful  for  me  as  it  is  for  you  — " 

"I  didn't  say  it  was  painful.  I  said  it  was  barred." 

"Well,  you  goad  me  into  it,  with  your  unspeakable  folly; 

too  much  under  Lil's  thumb  to  check  Roy,  even  for  his  own  good. 

For  Heaven's  sake,  Nevil,  put  your  foot  down  firmly,  for  once, 

and  reverse  your  crazy  decision." 

He  gave  her  a  long,  direct  look.  "Sorry  to  disappoint,  after  all 
the  trouble  you've  taken,"  he  said  in  a  level  tone,  "but  I've  al- 
ready told  you  the  matter's  settled.  My  foot  is  down  on  that  as 
firmly  as  even  you  could  wish." 


114  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"You  mean  it?"  she  gasped,  too  incredulous  for  wrath. 

"I  mean  it." 

"Yet  you  see  the  danger?" 

"I  see  the  danger." 

The  fact  that  he  would  not  condescend  to  lie  to  her  eased  a  lit- 
tle her  bitter  sense  of  defeat. 

She  rose  awkwardly;  all  of  a  piece. 

"Then  I  have  no  more  to  say.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you  all. 
Until  you  come  to  your  senses,  I  don't  cross  this  threshold  again." 

In  spite  of  the  threadbare  phrases,  genuine  pain  vibrated  in  her 
tone. 

"Don't  rant,  old  thing.  You  know  you'll  never  keep  it  up," 
Nevil  urged  more  gently  than  he  had  spoken  yet. 

But  anger  still  dominated  pain. 

"When  /  say  a  thing,  I  mean  it,"  she  retorted  stiffly,  "as  you 
will  find  to  your  cost."  Without  troubling  to  answer,  he  lunged 
for  the  door-handle;  but  she  waved  him  aside.  "All  humbug 
playing  at  poHteness,  when  you've  spurned  my  advice." 
/  "As  you  please."  He  stood  back  for  her  to  pass.  "Sorry  it's 
upset  you  so.  But  we'll  see  you  here  again  —  when  you've  got 
over  it." 

"The  boy  would  have  got  over  it  in  no  time,"  she  flung  back  at 
him  from  the  threshold.  "Mark  my  words,  disaster  will  come  of 
it.  Then  perhaps  you'll  admit  I  was  right." 

He  felt  no  call  to  argue  that  point.  She  was  gone  —  And  she 
had  carefully  refrained  from  slamming  the  door.  Somehow  that 
trifling  act  of  restraint  impressed  him  with  a  sense  of  finality 
oddly  lacking  in  her  dramatic  asseveration. 

He  stood  a  few  moments  staring  at  the  polished  oak  panels. 
Then  he  turned  back  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  she  had  occu- 
pied; and  all  the  inner  tension  of  the  last  hour  went  suddenly, 
completely  to  pieces  .  .  . 

It  was  the  penalty  of  his  artist  nature,  this  sharp  nervous  re- 
action from  strain;  and  with  it  came  crowding  back  all  the  in- 
sidious doubts  and  anxieties  that  even  Lilamani's  wisdom  had  not 
entirely  charmed  away.  He  felt  torn  at  the  moment  between 
anger  with  Roy  for  causing  all  this  pother;  and  anger  with  Jane, 


"  THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  '  115 

who,  for  all  her  lack  of  tenderness  and  tact,  was  right  —  up  to  a 
point.  It  was  just  Family  Herald  heroics  about  'not  crossing 
the  threshold.'  At  least  —  rather  to  his  surprise  —  he  found  him- 
self half  hoping  it  was.  Roy  and  Lilamani  could  frankly  de- 
test her  —  and  there  an  end.  Nevil  —  in  spite  of  unforgiveable 
interludes  —  was  liable  to  be  tripped  up  by  the  fact  that,  after 
all,  she  was  his  sister;  and  her  aggression  was  proof  that,  in 
her  own  queer  fashion,  she  loved  him.  Half  the  trouble  was 
that  the  love  of  each  for  the  other  took  precisely  the  form  that 
other  could  least  appreciate  or  understand:  no  uncommon  di- 
lemma in  family  life.  At  all  events,  he  had  achieved  his  declara- 
tion of  independence.  And  he  had  not  failed  to  evoke  the  *  deuce 
of  a  row.' 

With  a  sigh  of  smothered  exasperation,  he  leaned  forward  and 
hid  his  face  in  his  hands  .  .  . 

The  door  opened  softly.  He  started  and  looked  up.  It  was  Roy 
—  in  flannels  and  blazer,  his  dark  hair  slightly  ruffled:  considered 
dispassionately  (and  Nevil  believed  he  so  considered  him)  a  sin- 
gularly individual  and  attractive  figure  of  youth. 

At  the  look  in  his  father's  face,  he  hesitated,  wrinkling  his 
brows  in  a  way  that  recalled  his  mother. 

"  Anything  wrong,  Daddums?  I'm  fearfully  sorry.  I  came  for 
a  book.  Is  it"  —  still  further  hesitation  —  "  Aunt  Jane?" 

"Why?  Have  you  seen  her?"  Nevil  asked  sharply. 

"Yes.  Was  it  a  meteoric  visitation?  As  I  came  up  the  path, 
she  was  getting  into  her  car. — And  she  cut  me  dead!"  He 
seemed  more  amused  than  impressed.  Then  the  truth  dawned  on 
him.  "  Dad  —  have  you  been  telling  her?  Is  she  'as  frantic  as  a 
skit'?" 

Their  favourite  Hardy  quotation  moved  Nevil  to  a  smile. 
"She's  angry  —  naturally  —  because  she  wasn't  consulted," 
he  said  (a  happy  idea).  "  And  —  well,  she  doesn't  understand." 

"'Course  she  doesn't.  Can  she  ever?"  retorted  impertinent 
youth.  "She  lacks  the  supreme  faculty  —  imagination."  Which 
was  disrespectful,  but  unanswerable. 

Nevil  had  long  ago  recognised  the  futility  of  rebuke  in  the 
matter  of  'Aunt  Jane ';  and  it  was  a  relief  to  find  the  boy  took  it 


n6  FAR  TO  SEEK 

that  way.  So  he  smiled,  merely  —  or  fancied  he  did.  But  Roy 
was  quick-sighted;  and  his  first  impression  had  dismayed  him. 

No  hesitation  now.  He  came  forward  and  laid  a  hand  on  his 
father's  shoulder.  "Dads,  don't  get  worrying  over  me  —  out 
there,"  he  said  with  shy  tenderness  that  was  balm  after  the 
lacerating  scene  Nevil  had  just  passed  through.  "That'll  be  all 
right.  Mother  explained  —  beautifully." 

But  louder  than  Roy's  comfortable  assurance  sounded  within 
him  the  parting  threat  of  Jane:  'Disaster  will  come  of  it.  Then 
perhaps  you'll  admit  I  was  right.'  It  shook  the  foundations  of 
courage.  He  simply  could  not  stand  up  to  the  conjunction  of 
disaster  —  and  Roy.  With  an  effort  he  freed  himself  of  the  in- 
sidious thing:  —  and  just  then,  to  his  immense  surprise,  Roy 
stooped  and  kissed  the  top  of  his  head. 

"Confound  Aunt  Jane!  She's  been  bludgeoning  you.  And 
you  are  worrying.  You  mustn't  —  I  tell  you.  Bad  for  your  work. 
Look  here  — "a  portentous  pause.  "Shall  I  chuck  it  —  for  the 
present,  anyhow?" 

The  parental  attitude  of  the  modern  child  has  its  touching 
aspect.  Nevil  looked  up  to  see  if  Roy  were  chaffing;  and  there 
smote  him  the  queer  illusion  (rarer  now,  but  not  extinct)  of  look- 
ing into  his  own  eyes. 

Roy  had  spoken  on  impulse  —  a  noble  impulse.  But  he  pa- 
tently meant  what  he  said  —  this  boy  stigmatised  by  Jane  as 
*all  in  the  clouds,'  and  needing  a  'tight  hand.'  Here  was  one  of 
those  'whimsical  and  perilous  moments  of  daily  life'  that  pass  in 
a  breath;  light  as  thistledown,  heavy  with  complex  issues.  To 
Nevil  it  seemed  as  if  the  gods,  ^vith  ironical  gesture,  handed  him 
the  wish  of  his  heart,  saying:  "It  is  yours  —  if  you  are  fool 
enough  to  take  it."  Stress  of  thought  so  warred  in  him  that  he 
came  to  himself  with  a  fear  of  having  hurt  the  boy  by  ungracious 
silence. 

The  pause,  in  fact,  had  been  so  brief  that  Roy  had  only  just 
become  aware  that  his  cherished  dream  was  actually  trembling 
in  the  balance  —  when  Nevil  stood  up  and  faced  him,  flatly 
defying  Jane  and  Olympian  irony. 

"My  dear  old  boy,  you  shall  not  chuck  it,"  he  said  with  smiling 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  117 

decision.  "I've  never  believed  in  the  older  generation  being  a 
drag  on  the  wheel.  And,  now  it's  my  turn,  I  must  play  up. 
What's  life  worth  without  a  spice  of  risk?  I  took  my  own  —  a 
big  one  —  family  or  no  — " 

He  broke  off  —  and  Roy  filled  the  gap.  "You  mean  . . , 
marrying  Mother?  " 

"Yes  —  just  that,"  he  admitted  frankly.  "The  greatest  bit  of 
luck  in  my  life.  She  shared  the  risk  —  a  bigger  one  for  her.  And 
I'm  damned  if  we'll  cheat  you  of  yours.  There's  a  hidden  key 
somewhere  that  most  of  us  have  to  find.  Yours  may  be  in  India 
—  who  knows?  " 

He  spoke  rapidly,  as  if  anxious  to  convince  himself  no  less  than 
the  boy.  And  he  had  his  reward. 

"Dad  —  you're  simply  stunning  —  you  two,"  Roy  said 
quietly,  but  with  clear  conviction. 

At  that  moment,  the  purring  of  the  gong  vibrated  through  the 
house,  and  he  slipped  a  hand  through  his  father's  arm.  "That 
reminds  me  —  I'm  starving  himgry !  If  they're  still  out,  let's  be 
bold,  and  propitiate  the  teapot  on  our  own!" 

Lady  Roscoe  was,  after  all,  a  benefactor  in  her  own  despite. 
Her  meteoric  visitation  had  drawn  these  two  closer  together  than 
they  had  been  since  schoolroom  days. 


Chapter  VII 

Ce  que  nous  quittons  c'est  une  partie  de  notts  mime. 
Ilfaut  mourir  d  une  vie,  pour  entrer  dans  une  autre. 

Anatole  France 

After  all,  human  perversity  decreed  it  should  be  Roy  himself 
who  shrank  most  acutely  from  the  wrench  of  parting,  when  it 
loomed  near  enough  to  bring  him  down  from  Pisgah  heights  to 
the  dust  of  the  actual. 

Dyan  was  overjoyed,  of  course,  and  untroubled  by  qualms. 
Towards  the  end  of  July,  he  and  Aruna  came  for  a  brief  visit. 
His  excuses  for  its  brevity  struck  Roy  as  a  trifle  '  thin ' ;  but  Dyan 
kept  his  secret  and  paid  Tara  Despard  the  compliment  of  taking 
her  answer  as  final. 

It  was  during  his  visit  that  Roy  suffered  the  first  incipient 
qualms;  the  first  sharp  contact  with  practical  details:  —  date  of 
sailing,  details  of  outfit,  the  need  for  engaging  a  passage  betimes. 
As  regards  his  destination,  matters  were  simplified  by  the  fact 
that  the  new  Resident  of  Jaipur,  Colonel  Vincent  Leigh,  C.S.I., 
D.S.O.,  very  considerately  happened  to  be  the  husband  of  Des- 
mond's delightful  sister  Thea.  The  schoolboy  link  between 
Lance  and  Roy  had  created  a  lasting  friendship  between  their 
respective  families;  and  it  was  General  Sir  Theo  Desmond  — 
now  retired  —  who  had  invited  Roy,  in  the  name  of  his  'Twin,' 
to  start  with  an  unlimited  visit  to  the  Leighs;  the  sort  of  casual, 
elastic  visit  that  no  one  would  dream  of  proposing  outside  In- 
dia; unless  it  were  Ireland,  of  an  earlier,  happier  day.  The  pros- 
pect was  a  secret  consolation  to  Roy.  It  was  also  a  secret  jar 
to  find  he  needed  every  ounce  of  consolation  available. 

Very  carefully  he  hid  his  ignominious  frame  of  mind  —  even 
from  his  mother;  though  she  probably  suspected  it  and  would 
not  fail  to  understand.  What,  precisely,  would  life  be  worth  with- 
out that  dear,  daily  intimacy  —  life  uncoloured  by  the  rainbow- 
tinted  charm  of  her  gentle,  passionate,  humorous,  delicately 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  ng 

poised  personality?  Relations  of  such  rare  quality  exact  their 
own  pitUess  price;  and  the  woman  influence  would  always  be 
for  Roy  —  as  for  those  men  of  genuine  gifts  and  high  purpose  — 
his  danger-pomt  or  salvation.  The  dim  and  distant  pro'^pect  of 
parting  was  thinkable  —  though  perturbing.  But  all  this  talk 
of  steamers  and  outfits  startlingly  illumined  the  fact  that  in  Oc- 
tober he  was  actually  going  —  to  the  other  end  of  the  earth. 

With  Dyan's  departure,  realisation  pounced  upon  his  heart 
and  bram.  Vaguely,  and  quite  unjustly,  he  felt  as  if  his  cousin 
were  m  some  way  to  blame;  and  for  the  moment,  he  was  not 
Sony  to  be  rid  of  him.  Partings  over,  he  went  off  for  a  lone  prowl 
--hatless,  as  usual  — to  quiet  his  jangling  sensations  and  tell 
that  mner,  irresolute  Roy  not  to  be  a  treble-distilled  fool .  .  . 

Nothmg  like  the  open  moor  to  clear  away  cobwebs.  Its  sweeps 
of  heady  colour  and  blue  distances  could  be  trusted  to  revive  the 
wmged  impulse  that  lured  him  irresistibly  away  from  the  tangi- 
ble and  assured.  Is  there  no  hidden  link  — he  wondered  — 
between  the  wander-instinct  of  the  home-loving  Scot  and  the 
vast  spaces  of  moor  and  sky  that  lie  about  hun  in  his  in- 
fancy ,  .  .  ? 

But  first  he  must  traverse  the  enchanted  green  gloom  of  his 
beech-wood,  memory-haunted  at  every  turn.  Under  his  favour- 
ite tree,  a  wooden  cross,  carved  by  Tara  and  himself,  mark-'d 
the  grave  of  Prmce,  dead  these  three  years  of  sheer  old  age. 
And  at  sight  of  it  there  sprang  to  memory  that  unforgotten  day 
of  May;  —  the  fight  with  Joe;  Tara's  bracelet,  still  treasured  in 
his  letter-case,  even  as  Tara  treasured  the  'broidered  bodice ' 
m  a  lavender-scented  sachet,  set  apart  from  mere  blouses  and 
scarves  .  .  . 

And  again  that  troublesome  voice  within  urged  —  "What  an 
utter  fool  you  are  —  running  away  from  them  all ! " 

To  him  had  fallen  the  privilege  of  knowing  family  life  at  its 
best  --  the  finest  and  happiest  on  earth;  and  he  could  not  escape 
the  price  exacted,  when  the  call  comes  to  act  and  decide  and 
suffer  alone.  Associations  that  grow  up  with  us  are  more  or 
less  taken  for  granted  whUe  their  roots  lie  deep  in  the  heart 


I20  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Only  when  the  threat  of  parting  disturbs  the  delicate  fibres,  their 
depth  and  tenacity  are  revealed.  And  so  it  was  with  Roy.  Hurry- 
ing  through  his  wood  of  knightly  adventures,  he  felt  besieged,  m 
spirit  by  tlie  many  loves  that  had  hitherto  simply  been  a  part  of 
his  life;  yet  to-day  pressed  urgently,  individually,  upon  his  con- 
sciousness, his  heart ...  „    <.  j 

And  over  against  them  was  the  counter-pull  of  deep  ances- 
tral stirrings;  large,  vague  forces  of  the  outer  world;  the  sense  of 
ferment  everywhere;  of  storm  clouds  on  the  greater  horizon,  big 
with  dramas  that  might  rock  the  spheres  •  •  •      _ 

All  these  challenging  forces  seemed  to  dwarf  his  juvenile  agita- 
tions- even  to  arraign  his  own  beautiful  surroundings  as  almost 
too  peaceful,  too  perfect.  Life  could  not  be  altogether  made  up  of 
goodness  and  sweetness  and  poetry  and  philosophy.  Somewhere 
-  remote,  unseen,  implacable  -  there  must  lurk  strong  things, 
big  things,  perhaps  inimical  things,  waiting  to  pounce  on  him,  to 
be  tackled  and  overcome.  Anyhow  there  could  be  no  question, 
after  all  his  vapourings,  of  playing  the  fool  and  backmg  out- 
He  was  on  the  ridge  now;  clear  space  all  about  him,  heather 
underfoot;  his  stride  keeping  pace  with  the  march  of  his  tJioughts. 
Risks         ?  Of  course  there  were  risks.  He  recogmsed  that  more 
frankly  now;  and  the  talk  with  his  mother  had  revealed  a  big 
one  that  had  not  so  much  as  occurred  to  him.  For  Broome  was 
right.    Concentration  on  her  had,  in  a  sense,  delayed  his  mo- 
tional development;  had  kept  him  -  for  all  his  artistry  and  his 
First  in  Greats- very  much  a  boy  at  heart.  Certainly,  Aruna  s 
grace  and  gaiety  had  struck  him  more  consciously,  dunng  this 
Lt  visit.  No  denying,  the  Eastern  element  had  its  perilous  fas- 
cination. And  the  Eastern  element  was  barred.  Asforlara  — 
sister  and  friend  and  High-Tower  Princess  in  one -she  was  as 
much  a  part  of  home  as  his  mother  and  Christine.  He  had  simply 
not  seen  her  yet  as  a  budding  woman.  He  had,  m  fact,  been  too 
deeply  absorbed  in  Oxford  and  writing  and  his  dream  and  the 
general  deliciousness  of  life,  to  challenge  the  future  definitely, 
except  in  the  matter  of  going  to  India,  somewhen,  somehow    .. 
Lost  in  the  swirl  of  his  thoughts  and  the  exhilaration  of  light 
and  colour,  he  forgot  all  about  tea-time  .  .  . 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  121 

It  was  after  five,  when,  at  last,  he  swung  round  the  yew  hedge 
on  to  the  long  lawn;  and  there,  at  the  far  end,  was  Tara,  evi- 
dently sent  out  to  find  him.  She  was  wearing  her  delphinium 
frock  and  the  big  blue  hat  with  its  single  La  France  rose.  She 
walked  pensively,  her  head  bowed;  and,  in  that  moment,  by  some 
trick  of  sense  or  spirit,  he  saw  her  vividly,  as  she  was.  He  saw 
the  grace  of  her  young  slenderness,  the  wild-flower  colouring,  the 
delicate  aquiline  of  her  nose  that  revealed  breeding  and  char- 
acter; the  mouth  that  even  in  repose  seemed  to  quiver  with 
sensibility.  And  he  thought:  "Good  Lord!  How  lovely  she 
is!" 

Of  course  he  had  known  it  always  —  at  the  back  of  his  mind. 
The  odd  thing  was  he  had  never  thought  it,  ui  so  many  words, 
before.  And  from  the  thought  sprang  an  inspiration.  If  only  she 
could  come  out  with  them  —  for  a  time,  at  least.  So  imbued  was 
he  with  a  sense  of  their  brother-and-sister  relation,  that  the  idea 
seemed  as  natural  as  if  it  had  concerned  Christine.  He  had  cer- 
tainly been  aware,  the  last  year  or  so,  of  a  gossamer  veil  dropped 
between  them.  He  attributed  this  to  mere  grown-up-ness;  but 
it  made  him  feel  appreciably  shy  at  thought  of  broaching  his 
brilliant  idea. 

She  raised  her  head  at  that  point;  saw  him,  and  waved  a  com- 
manding hand.  Impelled  by  eagerness,  he  condescended  to  hurry. 

"Casual  demon  —  what  have  you  been  up  to?"  she  greeted 
him  with  mock  severity. 

"Prowling  on  the  ridge.  It  was  gorgeous  up  there,"  he  an- 
swered, noticing  in  detail  the  curve  of  her  eyelid  and  thick 
dark  lashes. 

"Well,  tea's  half  cold  and  most  of  it's  eaten;  and  Aunt  Lila 
seemed  wondering  a  little.  So  I  offered  to  go  and  unearth  you." 

"How  could  you  tell?" 

A  dimple  dipped  in  one  cheek.  "  I  couldn't !  I  was  going  to  the 
wood,  on  chance.   Come  along." 

"No  hurry.  If  tea's  half  cold,  it  can  wait  a  bit  longer."  He 
drew  a  breath,  nerving  hunself;  then:  "Tara  —  I've  got  a  pro- 
posal to  make." 

"Roy!"  her  lips  quivered,  just  perceptibly,  and  were  still. 


122  FAR  TO  SEEK 

.  *'  Well,  it's  this.  Wouldn't  it  be  splendid  if  you  came  along  out 
—  with  us  three?" 

"Roy!"  It  was  a  changed  intonation.  "That's  w/ a  subject 
for  a  practical  joke." 

"  But  I'm  in  earnest.  High-Tower  Princess,  wouldn't  you  love 
to  come?  " 

"Of  course  I  would."  Was  it  his  fancy,  or  did  the  blood  stir 
ever  so  little  in  her  cheeks?  "But  it's  utterly,  crazily  impossible. 
The  sort  of  thing  only  you  would  suggest.  So  please  let  be  —  and 
come  along  in." 

"Not  till  you  promise.  I'm  dead  set  on  this.  And  I'm  going 
to  have  it  out  with  you." 

"  Well,  you  won't  have  me  out  with  you  —  if  you  talk  till  mid- 
night." 

"Why  not?" 

Her  smile  had  its  deUcious  tremulous  quality.  "Were  you 
twenty-one  last  birthday  —  or  twelve?  If  you  think  you'll  be 
lonely,  ask  for  Christine.   She's  your  sister  —  I'm  not!" 

The  emphasis  and  faint  inflection  of  the  last  words  had  their 
intended  effect.  Roy's  face  fell.  "0-oh,  I  see.  But  you've  al- 
ways been  my  sort-of  sister.  Thea  would  understand.  And  now- 
adays girls  do  all  sorts  of  things." 

"Yes  —  they  do!"  Tara  agreed  demurely.  "They  scratch 
faces  and  burn  down  beautiful  harmless  houses.  But  they  don't 
happen  to  belong  to  Mother.  Roy,  it's  what  I  said  —  crazily  — 
utterly  —  If  it  wasn't,  d'you  suppose  I'd  say  No?" 

Then  Roy  knew  he  was  beaten.  Also  he  knew  she  was  right; 
and  that  he  had  been  an  impulsive  fool  —  depressing  convictions 
both.  For  a  moment  he  stood  nonplussed  while  Tara  fingered  a 
long  chain  he  had  given  her  and  absently  studied  a  daisy  plant 
that  had  dared  to  invade  the  oldest,  loveliest  lawn  in  that  part  of 
the  country. 

But  Roy  was  little  used  to  being  thwarted  —  by  home  ele- 
ments, at  least:  and  when  an  idea  seized  him  he  could  be  pertina- 
cious, even  to  the  point  of  folly.  He  was  determined  Tara  should 
come  with  hun.  And  Tara  wanted  to  come.  Add  her  perma- 
nent dearness  and  her  newly  found  loveliness,  and  there  sprang 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  123 

irom  the  conjunction  a  second  inspiration,  even  bolder  than  the 
first. 

"Tara  —  dear,"  he  ventured,  in  a  changed  tone  that  halted 
between  tenderness  and  appeal.  "I'm  going  to  say  —  something 
tremendous." 

She  deserted  the  daisy  and  faced  him;  blue  eyes  wide;  her  tell- 
tale lower  lip  drawn  in. 

"Would  it  be  —  quite  so  'crazily  —  utterly'  —  if  . . .  well, 
if  we  were  engaged?  " 

The  tremendous  word  was  out;  and  the  effect  on  her  was  un- 
mistakeable.  Colour  stirred  visibly  in  her  face.  She  straight- 
ened herself  with  an  air  that  seemed  physically  to  increase  the 
distance  between  them. 

"  Really,  Roy  —  have  you  quite  lost  your  senses  to-day?  " 

He  looked  —  and  felt  —  crestfallen.  "But,  Tara,"  he  urged, 
"it's  such  a  supreme  idea.  Wouldn't  you  —  think  of  it,  ever? 
We'd  fit  like  a  pair  of  gloves.  Mummy  would  love  it  —  extrav- 
agantly. And  we've  been  kind  of  —  caring  all  these  years.  At, 
least "  —  sudden  doubt  assailed  him  —  "I  suppose  you  do  care  * 
still  — a  little  bit?" 

"Silly  boy!  Of  course  I  —  care  ...  a  lot." 

That  was  more  like  the  Tara  he  knew.  "Very  well.  Why  ac- 
cuse me  of  incipient  lunacy?  I  care,  too.  Always  have  done. 
Think  how  topping  it  would  be,  you  and  I  together,  exploring  all 
the  wonderland  of  our  Game  and  Mummy's  tales  —  Udaipur, 
Amber,  Chitor,  perhaps  the  shrine  of  the  real  Tara  — " 

Still  demurely  distant,  she  thought  "how  topping  it  would 
be";  and  the  thought  kept  her  silent  so  long  that  he  grew  im- 
patient. 

"High-Tower  Princess  —  do  give  over.  Your  grown-up  air 
lire  awfully  sweet  —  but  not  to  the  point.    You  are  coming? 
It'll  spoil  everything  now,  if  you  don't." 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  small,  wise  smile  that  seemed  to 
push  him  away  from  her,  gently  yet  inexorably;  to  make  him  feel 
little  more  than  a  schoolboy  confronted  by  a  woman;  very  young 
in  her  new  shyness  and  dignity,  but  still  —  a  woman. 

"No,  Roy  —  I'm  not  coming.  It's  —  dear  of  you  to  want  me. 


124  FAR  TO  SEEK 

But  I  can't  —  for  lots  of  reasons.  So  please  understand,  once  for 
all.  And  don't  fuss." 

"But  you  said  —  you  cared,"  Roy  murmured  blankly. 

"Of  course  I  do.  Only  —  there's  caring  —  and  caring... 
since  you  make  me  say  it.  You  must  know  that  by  now.  Any- 
way, /  know  we  simply  can't  get  married  just  because  we're  very 
fond  of  each  other  and  it  would  please  'Mummy'  and  be  conven- 
ient for  India." 

Roy  sighed  portentously.  He  found  himself  feeling  younger 
and  younger  with  every  smiling,  reasonable  word  she  uttered.  It 
was  all  so  unlike  his  eager,  fiery  Tara  that  perplexity  tempered 
a  little  his  genuine  dismay. 

"I  s'pose  you're  right,"  he  grudgingly  admitted.  "But,  I'm 
fearfully  disappointed." 

"You  are  now.  You  won't  be  afterwards.  It's  not  manying 
time  for  you  —  yet.  You've  lots  of  big  things  to  do  first.  Go 
out  to  India  and  do  them.  Then  —  when  the  time  really  comes, 
you'll  understand  —  and  you'll  be  grateful  to  me  —  for  imder- 
standing  now.  There,  what  a  lecture!  But  the  point  is  —  we 
can't:  and  I  won't  be  badgered  about  it.  I'm  going  back  to  tea; 
and  if  you  don't  come,  I'll  have  to  tell  Aunt  Lila  —  why." 

He  sighed.  "I'll  probably  tell  her  myself  to-night.  Would 
you  mind?" 

"N-no,  she'll  understand." 

"Bet  she  won't." 

"  She  will.  You're  not  the  only  person  the  darling  understands, 
though  you  are  her  spoilt  boy." 

She  swung  round  on  that  impetuous  little  speech,  more  like  her 
normal  self;  and  her  going  was  so  swift  that  Roy  had  some  ado  to 
keep  pace  with  her.  He  had  still  more  ado  to  unravel  his  own 
tangle  of  thought  and  emotion.  A  few  clear  points  emerged  from 
a  chaos  of  sensations,  like  mountain-peaks  out  of  a  mist.  He 
knew  she  was  all  of  a  sudden  distractingly  lovely;  that  her  charm 
and  obstinacy  combined  had  thoroughly  churned  him  up;  that, 
all  the  same,  she  was  right  about  his  unreadiness  for  marrying 
now;  that  he  hoped  she  didn't  utterly  despise  him;  that  he  hated 
the  idea  of  leaving  her  more  than  ever  , . . 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  125 

Her  pace,  perhaps  intentionally,  made  talk  difficult;  and  he 
still  had  a  lot  to  say. 

"Tara  —  why  are  you  sprinting  like  this?"  he  broke  out,  re- 
proachfully. "Are  you  angry  with  me?  " 

She  vouchsafed  him  a  small  snuJe. 

"Not  yet.  But  I  soon  will  be,  if  you  don't  take  care.  And  I'm 
dangerous  in  a  temper!" 

"Don't  I  know  that?  I  once  had  a  scratch  that  didn't  heal  for 
a  month!  But  do  walk  slower.  You're  not  chucking  me  —  for 
good  —  eh?  " 

She  slowed  down  a  little,  perforce;  needing  her  breath  for  this 
new  and  hopelessly  intractable  Roy. 

"Really,  I've  never  known  you  ask  so  many  foolish  questions 
in  one  hour  before.  You  must  have  drunk  some  potion  up  on  the 
moor!  Have  you  forgotten  you're  my  Bracelet-Bound  Brother?  " 

"But  that  doesn't  bar  —  the  other  thing.  It's  not  one  of  the 
Prayer-Book  affinities!  I  say,  Tara  —  you  might  promise  to 
think  it  over.  If  you  can't  do  that  much,  I  won't  believe  you  care 
a  bean  about  me,  for  all  you  say  — " 

Her  blue  eyes  flashed  at  that  —  genuine  fire;  and  she  stood  still 
again,  confronting  him. 

"Roy  —  h&  quiet!  You  make  me  furious!  I  want  to  slap  you  1 
First  you  suggest  a  perfectly  crazy  plan;  then  you  worry  me  into 
a  temper  by  behaving  like  a  spoilt  boy,  who  won't  take  *No'  for 
an  answer." 

Roy  straightened  himself  sharply.  "  I'm  not  spoilt  —  and  I'm 
not  a  boy.  I'm  a  man." 

"Well,  then,  try  and  behave  like  one." 

The  moment  her  impulsive  retort  was  spoken,  she  saw  how 
sharply  she  had  hurt  him;  and,  with  a  swift  softening  of  her  ex- 
pressive face,  she  flung  out  a  hand.  He  held  it  hard.  And  sud- 
denly she  leaned  nearer;  her  lips  tremulous;  her  eyes  melting  into 
a  half  smile. 

"Roy  —  darling,"  she  murmured,  barely  above  her  breath. 
"  You're  really  —  a  little  bit  of  all  three.  That's  part  of  your  deli- 
ciousness  and  troublesomeness.  And  it's  not  your  fault  —  the 
^x)iling.  We've  all  helped.  I've  been  as  bad  as  the  others.  But 


126  FAR  TO  SEEK 

this  time  —  please  believe  —  I  simply,  utterly  can't  —  even  for 
you." 

Words  went  from  him.  He  could  only  cling  to  her  hand. 

But  with  a  deft  movement  she  freed  herself  —  and  fled 
round  the  corner  of  the  house;  leaving  him  in  a  state  of  confusion 
worse  confounded,  to  seek  his  mother  and  the  outraged  teapot  — 
alone. 

He  found  her,  companioned  by  the  ruins  of  tea,  in  the  depths 
of  her  great  armchair;  eyes  and  fingers  intent  on  a  square  of 
elaborate  embroidery;  thoughts  astray  with  her  unpunctual  son. 

Bramleigh  Beeches  drawing-room  —  as  re-created  by  Sir  Nevil 
Sinclair,  for  his  Indian  bride  —  was  a  setting  worthy  of  its 
mistress:  lofty  and  spacious,  light-filled  by  three  tall  French 
windows,  long  gold  curtains  shot  through  with  bronze;  gold  and 
cream-colour  the  prevailing  tone;  ivory,  brass,  and  bronze  the 
prevailing  incidentals,  mainly  Indian;  and  flowers  in  profusion 
—  roses,  Ulies,  sweet  peas.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  the  spirit 
of  Lflamani  Sinclair  was  restless,  lacking  the  son,  of  whom,  too 
soon,  both  she  and  her  home  would  be  bereft  — 

At  the  sound  of  his  step  she  looked  up. 

"Wicked  one!  What  came  to  you?  " 

Impossible  to  hide  from  her  the  disarray  of  his  emotions.  So 
he  spoke  the  simple  truth. 

"  Tara  came  to  me  — !  I'd  been  prowling  on  the  moor,  and  for- 
getting the  time.  I  met  her  on  the  lawn  — " 

"Yes  —  where  is  she?  —  And  you  — ?" 

He  caught  the  note  of  apprehension.  Next  moment  he  was 
kneeling  by  her  chair,  confessing  all. 

"Mummy,  I've  just  asked  her  —  to  marry  me.  And  she  sim- 
ply .  .  .  won't  hear  of  it.  I  thought  it  would  be  so  lovely,  going 
out  together  —  that  it  would  please  you  so  — " 

The  smile  in  her  eyes  recalled  Tara's  own.  "Did  you  say  it 
that  way  —  to  her,  my  darling?" 

"No  —  not  exactly.  Naturally  I  did  mention  you  —  and 
India.  She  admits  she's  fond  of  me.  Yet  she  got  quite  angry. 
I  can't  make  her  out." 

A  faintly  aggrieved  note  in  his  voice  implied  expectation  of 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  127 

sympathy.  To  his  inexpressible  surprise  she  said  pensively,  as  if 
to  herself:  "Such  a  wise  Tara!" 

"  Well,  /  don't  see  where  the  wisdom  comes  in,"  he  muttered, 
a  trifle  disconcerted. 

"Not  yet,  son  of  my  heart.  Some  day,  perhaps,  when  your 
eyes  are  not  too  dazzled  from  the  many-coloured  sparkle  of  youth 

—  of  yourself  —  you  will  see  —  many  surprises.  You  are  not  yet 
ready  for  a  wife,  Roy.  Your  heart  is  reaching  out  to  far-away 
things.  That  —  she  has  been  woman  enough  to  guess." 

"  Perhaps.  I'm  not  so  sure.  She  seemed  —  not  a  bit  like  her- 
self, part  of  the  time."  He  looked  pensively  at  a  slim  vase  over- 
flowing with  sprays  of  blush  rambler,  that,  for  some  reason, 
evoked  a  tantalising  vision  of  the  girl  who  had  so  suddenly 
blossomed  into  a  woman;  and  his  shy,  lurking  thought  found 
utterance:  "I've  been  wondering,  Mummy,  is  it .  .  .  can  she  be 

—  in  love  with  somebody  else?  Do  you  think  she  is?" 
Lilamani  shook  her  head  at  him.   "That  is  a  man's  question! 

Hard  to  tell.  At  this  kind  of  age,  when  girls  have  so  much  char- 
acter —  like  my  Tara  —  they  have  a  natural  instinct  for  hiding 
the  thoughts  of  their  hearts."  She  dropped  her  needlework  now 
and  lightly  took  his  head  between  her  hands,  looking  deep  into 
his  eyes.  "Do  you  think  you  are  yet  —  in  love  with  her,  Roy? 
Honest  answer." 

The  touch  of  her  hands  stirred  him  all  through.  The  question 
in  her  eyes  probed  deep. 

"Honest  answer.  Mummy  —  I'm  blest  if  I  know,"  he  said 
slowly.  "I  don't  think  I've  ever  been  so  near  it  before;  beyond 
thrills  at  dances  .  .  .  and  all  that.  She  somehow  churned  me 
up  just  now  and  made  me  want  her  tremendously.  But  I  truly 
hadn't  thought  of  it  —  that  way,  before.  And  —  I  did  feel  it 
might  ease  you  and  Dad  about ...  the  other  thing,  if  I  went  out 
fixed  up." 

She  drew  his  head  to  her,  and  kissed  him,  then  let  her  hands 
fall  in  her  lap.  "  Wonderful  Sonling !  Indeed  it  would  ease  me  and 
please  me  —  if  coming  from  the  true  motive.  Only  remember,  so 
long  as  you  are  thinking  first  of  me,  you  can  be  sure  That  Other 
has  not  yet  arrived." 


128  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"But  I  shall  always  think  first  of  you,"  he  declared,  catching 
at  her  hands.  "There's  no  one  like  you.  There  never  will  be." 

tc^Q  —  not  like,  but  different  —  in  dearness  and  nearness. 
Love  is  one  big  impulse,  but  many  forms.  Like  white  light  made 
from  many  colours.  No  rival  for  me,  That  Other;  but  daughter- 
in-law  —  best  gift  a  son  can  bring  to  his  father's  house.  Just  now 
there  is  room  inside  you  only  for  one  big  thing  —  India."' 

"And  you— " 

"But  I  am  India." 

"Sublimated  essence  of  it,  according  to  Jeffers." 

"Jeffers  says  many  foolish  things!"  But  she  did  not  disguise 
her  pleasure. 

"I've  noticed  occasional  flashes  of  wisdom!  — But  I  say, 
Motherlmg,  what  price  tea?" 

"Tea?"  She  feigned  exaggerated  surprise.  "I  thought  you 
were  much  too  far  in  the  clouds!" 

"On  the  contrary.  I'm  simply  famished." 

And  forthwith  he  fell  upon  a  plate  of  sugared  cakes;  while  she 
rang  for  the  fresh  teapot  so  often  in  requisition  for  *  Mr.  Roy.' 


Chapter  VIII 

Comfort,  content,  delight,  the  ages'  slow-bought  gain, 
They  shrivelled  in  a  night.  Only  ourselves  remain 
To  face  the  naked  days,  in  silent  fortittide; 
Through  perils  and  dismays,  renewed  and  re-renewed. 

Kipling 

Nevil  was  up  in  town  on  business;  not  returning  till  next  day. 
The  papers  were  seething  with  rumours;  but  the  majority  of 
every-day  people,  immersed  in  their  all-important  affairs,  con- 
tinued cheerfully  to  hope  against  hope.  Sir  Nevil  Sinclair  was 
not  of  these;  but  he  kept  his  worst  qualms  to  himself.  Neither 
his  wife  nor  his  son  was  a  keen  newspaper  reader:  which,  in  his 
opinion,  was  just  as  well. 

Certainly  it  did  not  occur  to  Lilamani  that  any  trouble  in 
Europe  could  invade  the  sanctities  of  her  home,  or  affect  the 
shining  destiny  of  Roy.  That  he  was  destined  to  shine,  her 
mother's  heart  knew  beyond  all  doubt.  And  round  that  knowl- 
edge, like  an  aura,  glimmered  a  dream-like  hope  that  perhaps 
his  shining  might  some  day,  in  some  way,  strengthen  the  bond 
between  Nevil's  people  and  her  own.  For  the  problem  of  In- 
dia's changing  relation  to  England  lay  intimately  near  her 
heart.  Her  poetic  brain  saw  England  always  as  'husband  of 
India';  while  misguided  or  malicious  meddlers  —  who  would 
*make  the  Mother  a  widow'  —  were  fancifully  incorporated  in 
the  person  of  Jane.  And,  in  this  matter  of  India,  Roy  had  tri- 
umphed over  Jane  —  surely  a  good  omen  for  bigger  things:  — 
for  at  heart  she  was  still  susceptible  to  omens;  more  so  than 
she  cared  to  admit.  Crazy  mother-arrogance,  Nevil  would  say. 
But  she  seemed  to  feel  the  spirit  of  his  grandfather  at  work  in 
Roy;  and  well  she  knew  that  the  old  man's  wisdom  would  guide 
and  temper  his  young  zeal.  Beyond  that,  no  human  eyes  could 
see;  only  the  too-human  heart  of  a  mother  could  dream  and 
hope  . . . 


I30  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Long  ago  her  father  had  told  that  nations  had  always  been 
renewed  by  individuals;  that  India  —  aristocratic  to  the  deeps 
of  her  Brahmin-ridden  soul  —  would  never  acknowledge  the 
crowd's  unstable  sway.  For  her  it  must  always  be  the  man  — 
ruler,  soldier,  or  saint. 

Not  that  she  had  breathed  a  word  of  her  'arrogance*  to  Nevil, 
or  even  to  Roy.  Nor  had  she  shown  to  either  a  certain  letter 
from  a  distinguished  Indian  woman,  received  soon  after  the  com- 
ing of  Roy.  Pure  Indian  by  birth,  she  was  also  by  birth  a  Chris- 
tian; her  sympathy  with  East  and  West  as  evenly  poised  as 
Lildmani's  own.  The  letter  lived  in  a  slim  blue  bag,  lovingly 
embroidered.  Lilamani  —  foolish  and  fanciful  —  wore  it  like  a 
talisman,  next  her  heart;  and  at  night  slipped  it  under  her  pillow 
with  her  gold  watch  and  wisp  of  scented  lawn. 

To-night,  being  alone,  and  her  mind  very  full  of  Roy,  she  drew 
it  out  and  re-read  it  for  the  hundredth  time;  lingering,  as  always, 
on  its  arresting  finale. 

"I  have  seen  much  and  grieved  more  over  the  problem  of  the 
Eurasian,  as  multiplied  in  our  beloved  country  —  the  fruit,  most 
often,  of  promiscuous  unions  between  low-caste  types  on  both 
sides,  with  sense  of  stigma  added  to  drag  them  lower  still.  But 
where  the  crossing  is  of  highest  caste  —  as  with  you  and  your 
'Nevil'  —  I  can  see  no  stigma;  perhaps  even  spiritual  gain  to 
your  children.  For  I  love  both  countries  with  my  whole  heart. 
And  to  my  love  God  has  given  the  vision  that  India  may  some 
day  be  saved  by  the  son  of  just  such  a  union  as  your  own.  He 
will  have  the  strength  of  his  handicap;  the  soul  of  the  East;  the 
forceful  mind  and  character  of  the  West.  He  will  bring  to  the 
task  of  uniting  them  such  twofold  love  and  understanding  that 
the  world  must  needs  take  infection.  What  if  the  ultimate  mean- 
ing of  British  occupation  of  India  be  just  this  —  that  the  suc- 
cessor of  Buddha  should  be  a  man  born  of  high-caste,  high-souled 
British  and  Indian  parents;  a  fusion  of  the  finest  that  East  and 
West  can  give?  That  vision  may  inspire  you  in  your  first  flush 
of  happy  motherhood.   So  I  feel  impelled  to  pass  it  on  .  .  ." 

Such  a  vision  —  whether  fantasy  or  prophecy  —  could  not 
fail  to  stir  Lilamani  Sinclair's  Eastern  heart  to  its  depths.  But 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  131 

she  shrank  from  sceptical  comment;  and  sceptical  Nevil  would 
surely  be.  As  for  Roy,  intuition  warned  her  it  was  too  heady 
an  idea  to  implant  in  his  ardent  brain.  So  she  treasured  it 
secretly,  and  read  it  at  intervals,  and  prayed  that,  some  day,  it 
might  be  fulfilled  —  if  not  through  her,  then  through  some  other 
Lilamani,  who  should  find  courage  to  link  her  life  with  England. 
Above  aU,  she  prayed  he  who  should  achieve  India's  renewal 
might  spring  from  Rajasthan  — 

In  the  midst  of  her  thmking  and  praying,  she  fell  sound  asleep 
—  to  dream  of  Roy  tossed  out  of  reach  on  the  waves  of  some  large 
vague  upheaval.  The  'how'  and  'why'  of  it  all  eluded  her.  Only 
the  vivid  impression  remained  .  .  . 

And  before  the  week  was  out,  an  upheaval,  actual  and  terrible, 
burst  upon  a  startled,  unheeding  world;  a  world  lulled  into  a 
false  sense  of  security;  and  too  strenuously  engaged  in  rushing 
headlong  round  a  centrifugal  point  called  progress,  to  concern 
itself  with  a  mythical  peril  across  the  North  Sea. 

But  at  the  first  clear  note  of  danger,  devotees  of  pleasure  and 
progress  and  the  franchise  were  transformed,  as  by  magic,  into  a 
crowd  of  bewildered,  curious,  and  resentful  human  beings,  who 
had  suddenly  lost  their  bearings;  who  snatched  at  newspapers; 
confided  in  perfect  strangers;  protested  that  a  European  War  was 
unspeakable,  unthinkable,  and  all  the  while  could  speak  and 
think  of  nothing  else  . . . 

It  was  the  nightmare  terror  of  earthquake,  when  the  solid 
ground  underfoot  turns  traitor.  And  it  shook  even  the  stoutest 
nerves  in  the  opening  weeks  of  the  Great  War,  destined  to  shatter 
their  dear  and  familiar  world  for  months,  years,  decades,  per- 
haps ... 

But  underlying  all  the  froth  and  fume  of  the  earlier  restless- 
ness,  of  the  later  fear  and  futility,  the  strong,  kindly,  imper- 
turbable heart  of  the  land  still  beat  sanely  — if  inconspicu- 
ously —  in  the  home  life  of  her  cottages  and  her  great  country 
houses.  Twentieth-century  England  could  not  be  called  degen- 
erate while  she  counted  among  her  hidden  treasures  homes  of 
such  charm  and  culture  ^pd  mutual  confidence  as  those  that 


132  FAR  TO  SEEK 

produced  the  Grenfells,  the  Charltons,  a  Lord  Elcho,  an  Edward 
Tennant,  and  a  Charles  Sorley  —  to  pick  a  few  names  at  ran- 
dom from  that  galaxy  of  'golden  boys'  who  ungrudgingly  gave 
their  lives  —  for  what? 

The  answer  to  that  staggering  question  is  not  yet.  But  the 
splendour  of  their  gift  remains  —  a  splendour  no  after-failure 
can  tarnish  or  dim  .  .  . 

To  the  inmates  of  Bramleigh  Beeches  —  Nevil  excepted  — 
the  crash  came  with  startling  abruptness;  dwarfing,  in  a  flash,  all 
personal  problems  —  heart-searchings  and  high  decisions.  Even 
Lady  Roscoe  forgot  Family  Herald  heroics,  and  'crossed  the 
threshold'  without  comment  from  Nevil  or  herself.  The  weighti- 
est matters  became  suddenly  trivial  beside  the  tremendous  ques- 
tions that  hovered  in  every  mind  and  on  every  tongue:  "Can  We 
hold  Them?"  "Can  They  invade  Us?"  "Can  it  be  true  —  this 
whispered  horror,  that  rmnoured  disaster?"  And  the  test  ques- 
tion —  most  tremendous  of  all,  for  the  mere  unit  —  "Where  do  / 
come  in?" 

Nevil  came  in  automatically  through  years  of  casual  connec- 
tion with  the  Artists'  Rifles.  He  was  a  Colonel  by  now;  and 
would  join  up  as  a  matter  of  course  —  to  his  wife's  secret  amaze- 
ment and  far  from  secret  pride.  Without  an  ounce  of  the  soldier 
in  him,  he  acted  on  instinct  like  most  Englishmen;  not  troubling 
to  analyse  motives;  simply  in  the  spirit  of  noblesse  oblige;  or,  in 
the  more  casual  modem  phrase  —  '  one  just  does.' 

Roy  —  poet  and  dreamer  —  became  electrically  alive  to  his 
double  heritage  of  the  soldier  spirit.  From  age  to  age  the  prime- 
val link  between  poet  and  warrior  is  reaffirmed  in  time  of  war: 
and  the  Rajput  in  him  recognised  only  one  way  of  fighting 
worthy  the  name  —  the  triune  conjunction  of  man  and  horse  and 
sword.  Disillusion,  strange  and  terrible,  awaited  him  on  that 
score:  and  as  for  India  —  what  need  of  his  young  activities,  when 
the  whole  Empire  was  being  welded  into  one  resistant  mass  by 
the  triple  hammer-strokes  of  a  common  danger,  a  common 
enemy,  a  common  aim? 

It  was  perhaps  this  sense  of  a  clear  call  in  an  age  of  intellectual 
ferment,  of  sex  problems  and  political  friction,  that  sent  so  many 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  133 

unlikely  types  of  manhood  straight  as  arrows  to  that  universal 
target  —  the  Front.  The  War  offered  a  high  and  practical  outlet 
for  their  dumb  idealism;  to  their  realism,  it  offered  the  'terrific 
verities  of  fatigue,  suffering,  bodUy  danger  —  beloved  life  and 
staggering  death.' 

For  Roy,  cavalry  was  a  matter  of  course.  In  the  saddle,  even 
Jane  could  find  no  fault  with  him;  little  guessing  that,  in  his 
genius  for  horsemanship,  he  was  Rajput  to  the  marrow.  His 
compact,  nervous  make,  strong  thigh  and  light  hand  marked  him 
as  the  inevitable  centaur;  and  he  had  already  gained  a  measure  of 
distinction  in  the  cavalry  arm  of  the  Officers'  Training  Corps. 
But  a  great  wish  to  keep  in  touch  with  his  father  led  hrni  to  fall  in 
with  Sir  Nevil's  suggestion  that  he  should  start  in  the  Artists' 
Rifles  and  apply  for  a  transfer  later  on  —  when  one  could  see 
more  clearly  how  this  terrific  business  was  likely  to  develop. 
George  and  Jerry  —  aged  fifteen  and  sixteen  and  a  half  —  raged 
at  their  own  futile  juvenility  —  which,  in  happier  circumstances, 
nothing  would  have  induced  them  to  admit.  Jerry  —  a  gay  and 
reckless  being  —  had  fell  designs  on  the  Flying  Corps,  the  very 
first  moment  he  could  'wangle  it.'  George  —  the  truest  Smclair 
of  them  all  —  sagely  voted  for  the  Navy,  because  it  took  you 
young.  But  no  one  heeded  them  very  much.  They  were  all  too 
absorbed  in  newspapers  and  their  own  immediate  plans. 

And  Lildmani,  also,  found  her  niche,  when  the  King's  stirring 
proclamation  announced  the  commg  of  Indian  troops.  There 
was  to  be  a  camp  on  the  estate.  Later  on,  there  would  be  con- 
valescents. Meantime,  there  was  wholesale  need  of  'comforts'  to 
occupy  her  and  Helen  and  Christine. 

Tara's  soarmg  ambition  would  carry  her  farther  afield.  Her 
spirit  of  flame  —  that  rose  instmctively  to  tragic  issues  and 
heroic  demands  —  could  be  at  peace  nowhere  but  in  the  splen- 
did, terrible,  unorganised  thick  of  it  all.  Without  making  any 
ado  about  the  matter,  she  proposed  to  get  there  in  the  shortest 
possible  tune;  and,  in  the  shortest  possible  time,  by  sheer  con- 
centration and  hard  work,  she  achieved  her  desire.  Before  Roy 
left  Englanu,  before  her  best  loved  brother  —  a  man  of  brilliant 
promise  —  had  finished  learning  to  fly,  she  was  driving  her  car 


134  FAR  TO  SEEK 

in  Belgium,  besieged  in  Antwerp,  doing  and  enduring  terrible 
things  .  .  . 

After  Tara,  Nevil  —  for  the  Artists'  Rifles  were  early  in  the 
field.  After  Nevil,  Roy  —  his  exchange  effected  —  very  slim  and 
soldierly  in  cavalry  uniform;  his  grey-blue  eyes,  with  the  lurking 
gleam  in  them,  more  than  ever  noticeable  in  his  simburnt  face. 

The  last  day,  the  last  hour,  were  at  once  sad  and  glad  beyond 
belief;,  so  that  Lilamani's  coward  heart  was  thankful  for  urgent 
trifles  that  helped  to  divert  attention  from  the  waiting  shadow. 
Even  to-day,  as  always,  dress  and  sari  were  instinctively  chosen 
to  express  her  mood:  —  the  mother-o'-pearl  mood;  iridescence  of 
glad  and  sad:  glad  to  give;  yet  aching  to  keep.  Daughter  of  Raj- 
puts though  she  was,  she  had  her  moment  of  very  human  shrink- 
ing. When  the  sharp  actuality  of  parting  was  upon  them;  when  he 
held  her  so  close  and  long  that  she  felt  as  if  the  tightened  cord 
round  her  heart  must  snap  —  and  there  an  end  .  .  . 

But,  by  some  miracle,  some  power  not  her  own,  courage  held; 
though,  when  he  released  her,  she  was  half  blinded  with  tears. 

Her  last  words  —  entirely  like  herself  though  they  were  — 
surprised  him.  "Son  of  my  heart  — live  for  ever,"  she  whis- 
pered, laying  light  hands  on  his  breast.  "And  when  you  go  into 
the  battle,  always  keep  strongly  in  your  mind  that  They  must 
not  win,  because  no  sacred  or  beautiful  thing  would  be  left  clean 
from  their  touch.  And  when  you  go  into  the  battle,  always  re- 
member —  Chitor." 

"It  is  you  I  shall  always  remember  —  looking  like  this,"  he 
answered  under  his  breath.  But  he  never  forgot  her  injimctions; 
and  through  years  of  fighting,  he  obeyed  them  to  the  letter  . . . 

That  was  in  April,  after  Neuve  Chapelle,  when  even  optimists 
admitted  that  the  War  might  last  a  year. 

At  Christmas-time  he  came  home  on  short  leave  —  a  changed 
Roy;  his  skin  browner;  his  sensitive  lips  more  closely  set  imder 
the  shadow  line  of  his  moustache;  the  very  fibre  of  body  and 
spirit  hardened,  without  loss  of  fineness  or  flexibility.  Livelier  on 
the  surface,  he  was  graver,  more  reticent,  underneath  —  even 
with  her.  By  the  look  in  his  eyes  she  knew  he  had  seen  things 


THE  VISIONARY  GLEAM  135 

that  could  never  be  put  into  words.  Some  of  them  she,  too,  had 
seen,  through  his  mind;  so  close  was  the  unspoken,  spiritual  link 
between  them.  In  that  respect,  at  least,  he  was  beautifully, 
frankly,  unchanged  .  .  . 

Nevil  was  home,  too,  for  that  wonderful  Christmas;  and  Tara, 
changed  also,  in  her  own  vivid  way;  frank  and  friendly  with  Roy; 
though  the  grown-up  veil  between  them  was  seldom  lifted  now. 
For  the  War  held  them  both  in  its  unrelaxing  grip;  satisfied,  in 
terrible  and  tremendous  fashion,  the  hidden  desire  —  not  un- 
common m  young  things,  though  concealed  like  a  vice  — to 
suffer  for  others.  Everything  else,  for  the  tune  being,  seemed  a 
side  issue.  Personal  affairs  could  wait .  .  . 

When  it  came  to  lettmg  Nevil  and  Roy  go  again,  after  their 
brief,  beautiful  interlude  together,  Lilamani  discovered  how  those 
fifteen  months  of  ceaseless  anxiety  and  ceaseless  service  had 
shaken  her  nerve.  Gladness  of  giving  could  now  scarce  hold  its 
own  against  dread  of  losing;  till  she  felt  as  if  her  heart  must  break 
under  the  strain.  It  did  not  break,  however.  It  endured  —  as 
the  hearts  of  a  million  mothers  and  wives  have  endured  in  all 
ages  —  to  breaking  point .  .  .  and  beyond.  The  immensity  of 
the  whole  world's  anguish  at  once  crushed  and  upheld  her,  mak- 
ing her  individual  pain  seem  almost  a  little  thing  — 

They  left  her.  And  the  War  went  on  —  disastrously,  glori- 
ously, stubbornly,  inconclusively;  would  go  on,  it  seemed,  to  the 
end  of  Time.  One  came  to  feel  as  if  life  free  from  the  shadow  of 
War  had  never  been;  as  if  it  would  never  be  again  — 


END  OP  PHASE  II 


PHASE  m 
PISGAH  HEIGHTS 


PHASE  III 

PISGAH  HEIGHTS 

Chapter  I 

No  receipt  openeth  the  heart,  but  a  true  friend. 

FRANas  Bacon 
As  early  as  1819  there  had  been  a  Desmond  in  India;  a  soldier-^ 
administrator  of  mark  in  his  day.  During  the  Sikh  Wars  there 
had  been  a  Desmond  in  the  Punjab;  and  at  the  time  of  the  Great 
Mutiny  there  was  a  Punjab  Cavaby  Desmond  at  Kohat;  a  nota- 
ble fighter,  with  a  flowing  beard  and  an  easy-going  uniform  that 
would  not  commend  itself  to  the  modern  military  eye.  In  the 
year  of  the  second  Afghan  War,  there  was  yet  another  Desmond 
at  Kohat;  one,  that  earned  the  cross  'For  Valour,'  married  the 
daughter  of  Sir  John  Meredith,  and  rose  to  high  distinction. 
Later  still,  in  the  year  of  grace  1918,  his  two  sons  were  stationed 
there,  in  the  selfsame  Punjab  Cavalry  Regiment.  There  was  also 
by  now,  a  certain  bungalow  in  Kohdt  known  as  'Desmond's 
bungalow,'  occupied  at  present  by  Colonel  Paul  Desmond,  now 
in  command. 

That  is  no  uncommon  story  in  India.  She  has  laid  her  spell 
on  certain  families;  and  they  have  followed  one  another  through 
the  generations,  as  homing  bkds  follow  in  line  across  the  sunset 
sky.  And  their  name  becomes  a  legend  that  passes  from  father 
to  son;  because  India  does  not  forget.  There  is  perhaps  noth- 
ing quite  like  it  in  the  tale  of  any  other  land.  It  makes  for  con- 
tinuity; for  a  fine  tradition  of  service  and  devotion;  a  tradition 
that  will  not  be  broken  till  agitators  and  theorists  make  an  end 
of  Britain  m  India.  But  that  day  is  not  yet;  and  the  best  ele- 
ments of  both  races  still  believe  it  will  never  be. 

Certainly  neither  Paul  nor  Lance  Desmond,  riding  home  to- 
gether from  kit  inspection,  on  a  morning  of  early  September,  en- 
tertained the  dimmest  idea  of  a  break  with  the  family  tradition. 


I40  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Lance  at  seven-and-twenty  —  spare  and  soldierly,  alive  to  the 
finger-tips  —  was  his  father  in  replica,  even  to  the  V.C.  after  his 
name,  which  he  had  'snaffled  out  of  the  War,'  together  with  a 
Croix  de  Guerre  and  a  brevet-majority.  Though  cavalry  had 
been  at  a  discount  m  France,  Mesopotamia  and  Palestine  had 
given  the  Regiment  its  chance  —  with  fever  and  dysentery  and 
chaos  and  all  the  plagues  of  Egypt  thrown  in  —  to  keep  things 
going. 

It  was  in  the  process  of  filling  up  his  woeful  gaps  that  Colonel 
Desmond  had  appUed  for  Roy  Sinclair,  and  so  fulfilled  the  desire 
of  his  brother's  heart;  also,  incidentally,  Roy's  craving  to  serve 
with  Indian  Cavalry.  To  that  end,  his  knowledge  of  the  lan- 
guage, his  superb  horsemanship,  his  darmg  and  resource  in  scout 
work,  had  stood  him  in  good  stead.  Paul  —  who  scarcely  knew 
him  at  the  time  —  very  soon  discovered  that  he  had  secured  an 
asset  for  the  Regiment:  the  great  Fetish,  that  had  so  far  claimed 
his  paramount  allegiance,  and  began  to  look  like  claiming  it  for 

life. 

"He's  just  John  over  again,"  Lady  Desmond  would  say,  re- 
ferring to  a  brother  who  had  served  the  great  Fetish  from  subal- 
tern to  Colonel  and  left  his  name  on  a  cross  in  Kohdt  cemetery. 

Certainly,  in  form  and  feature,  Paul  was  very  much  a  Mere- 
dith:—the  coppery  tone  of  his  hair,  the  straight  nose  and 
steadfast  grey-blue  eyes,  the  height  and  breadth  and  suggestion 
of  power  m  reserve.  It  was  one  of  the  most  serious  problems 
of  his  life  to  keep  his  big  frame  under  weight  for  polo,  without 
impairing  his  unmense  capacity  for  work.  Apart  from  this  im- 
portant detail,  he  was  smgularly  unaware  of  his  striking  personal 
appearance,  except  when  others  chaffed  him  about  his  look  of 
Lord  Kitchener,  and  were  usually  snubbed  for  their  pams; 
though,  at  heart,  he  was  inordinately  proud  of  the  fact.  He  had 
only  one  quarrel  with  the  hero  of  his  boyhood;  —  the  decree  that 
officially  extmguished  the  Frontier  Force;  though  the  spirit  of  it 
survives,  and  will  survive,  for  decades  to  come.  Like  his  brother, 
he  had  'snaffled'  a  few  decorations  out  of  the  War:  but  to  be  in 
command  of  the  Regiment,  with  Lance  in  charge  of  his  pet 
squadron,  was  better  than  all. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  141 

The  strong  bond  of  affection  between  these  two  —  first  and 
last  of  a  family  of  six  —  was  enhanced  by  their  very  unlikeness. 
Lance  had  the  elan  of  a  torrent;  Paul  the  stillness  and  depth  of  a 
mountain  lake.  Lance  was  a  rapier;  Paul  a  claymore;  slow  to 
smite,  formidable  when  roused.  And  both  were  natural  leaders 
of  men.  They  had  only  returned  in  March  from  active  service, 
with  the  Regiment  very  much  the  worse  for  wear;  heartily  sorry 
to  be  out  of  the  biggest  show  on  record;  yet  heartily  glad  to  be 
back  in  India,  sadly  changing  India  though  it  was. 

Two  urgent  questions  were  seriously  troubling  the  mind  of 
Lance  as  they  rode  at  a  foot's  pace  up  the  slope  leading  to  the 
Blue  Bungalow.  Would  the  board  of  doctors,  at  that  moment 
'sitting'  on  Roy,  give  him  another  chance?  Would  the  impend- 
ing reliefs  condemn  them  to  a  'down-country'  station?  For  they 
had  only  been  posted  to  Kohat  till  these  came  out. 

To  one  of  those  questions  Colonel  Desmond  already  knew  the 
answer. 

"I  had  a  line  from  the  General  this  morning,"  he  remarked, 
after  studying  his  brother's  profile  and  shrewdly  gauging  his 
thoughts. 

True  enough  —  his  start  betrayed  him.  "The  General?  Re- 
Uefs?" 

"Yes."  A  pause.  "We're  for  —  Lahore  Cantonments." 

"Damn!" 

"I've  made  that  inspired  remark  ah-eady.  You  needn't  flatter 
yourself  it's  original ! " 

"I'm  not  in  the  mood  to  flatter  myself  or  anyone  else.  I'm  in  a 
towering  rage.  And  if  dear  old  Roy  is  to  be  timied  down  into  the 
bargain  — !"  Words  failed  him.  He  had  his  father's  genius  for 
making  friends;  and  among  them  all  Roy  Sinclair  reigned  su- 
preme. 

"I'm  afraid  he  will  be  if  I  know  anything  of  medical  boards." 

"Why  the  devil—?"  Lance  flashed  out.  "It's  not  as  if  Ai 
officers  were  tiunbling  over  each  other  in  the  Service.  If  Roy  was 
a  Tommy,  they'd  jolly  soon  think  of  something  better  than  leave 
and  futile  tonics." 

Colonel  Desmond  smiled  at  the  characteristic  outburst. 


142  \  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Certainly  their  tinkering  isn't  up  to  much.  But  I'm  afraid 
there's  more  v>rrong  with  Roy  than  mere  doctoring  can  touch. 
Still  —  he  doesn't  seem  keen  on  going  Home." 

Lance  shook  his  head,  "Naturally  —  poor  old  chap.  Feels  he 
can't  face  things,  yet.  It's  not  only  the  delights  of  Mespot  that 
have  knocked  him  ofiE  his  centre.  It's  losing  —  that  jewel  of  a 
mother."  His  eyes  darkened  with  feeling.  "You  can't  wonder. 
If  anything  was  to  happen  — "He  broke  off  abruptly. 

Paul  Desmond  set  his  teeth  and  was  silent.  In  the  deep  of  his 
heart,  the  Regiment  had  one  rival  —  and  Lady  Desmond  knew 
it  .  .  . 

They  found  the  bungalow  empty.  No  sign  of  Roy. 

"Getting  round  'em,"  suggested  Paul  optimistically,  and 
passed  on  iato  his  dufter. 

Lance  Ut  a  cigar,  flung  himself  into  a  verandah  chau:  and 
picked  up  the  'Civil  and  MiHtary.'  He  had  just  scanned  the  war 
telegrams  when  Roy  came  up  at  a  round  trot. 

Lance  sat  forward  and  discarded  the  paper.  An  exchange  of 
glances  sufficed.  Roy's  determination  to  'bluff  the  board'  had 
failed. 

He  looked  sallow  in  spite  of  sunburn;  tired  and  disheartened; 
no  lurkmg  smile  in  his  eyes.  He  fondled  the  velvet  nose  of  his 
beloved  Suraj;  a  graceful  creature,  half  Arab,  half  Waler;  and 
absently  acknowledged  the  frantic  jubilations  of  his  Irish  terrier 
puppy,  christened  by  Lance  the  'Holy  Terror'  — 'Terry'  for 
short.  Then  he  mounted  the  steps  with  no  spring  in  his  move- 
ment, subsided  into  the  other  chau*,  and  dropped  his  cap  and 
whip  on  the  ground. 

"Damn  the  doctors!"  said  Lance,  questions  being  superfluous. 

That  so  characteristic  form  of  sympathy  moved  Roy  to  a 
rueful  smile.  "Obstinate  devils.  I  bluffed 'em  all.  I  knew.  Over- 
did it,  perhaps.  Anyway,  they  weren't  unpressed.  They've  dis- 
pensed with  my  valuable  services.  Anaemia,  mild  neurasthenia, 
cardiac  symptoms  —  and  a  few  other  pusillanimous  ailments. 
Wonder  they  didn't  throw  in  housemaid's  knee!  Oh,  confound 
'em  all!"  He  converted  a  sigh  into  a  prolonged  yawn.  "Let's 
make  merry  over  a  peg,  Lance.   Doctors  are  exhausting  folk  to 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  143 

argue  with.  And  Cuthers  always  said  I  couldn't  argue  for  nuts! 
Now,  then  —  how  about  pegs?  " 

"A  bit  demoralising  —  at  midday,"  Lance  murmured  without 
conviction. 

"Well,  I  am  demoralised;  dead  —  damned  —  done  for.  I'm 
about  to  be  honoured  with  a  blooming  medical  certificate  to  that 
efifect.  As  a  soldier,  I'm  extmct  —  from  this  time  forth  for  ever- 
more. You  see  before  you  the  wraith  of  a  Might-Have-Been. 
After  that  gold-medal  exhibition  of  inanity,  kindly  produce  said 
pegs!" 

Lance  Desmond  listened,  with  a  grave  smile  and  a  sharp  con- 
traction of  heart,  to  the  absurdities  of  this  first-best  friend,  who 
for  three  years  had  shared  with  him  the  high  and  horrible  and 
ludicrous  vicissitudes  of  war.  He  knew  only  too  well  that  trick 
of  talking  at  random  to  drown  some  inner  stress.  With  every 
word  of  nonsense  he  uttered,  Roy  was  implicitly  confessmg  how 
acutely  he  felt  the  blow;  and  to  parade  his  own  bitter  disappoint- 
ment seemed  an  egotistical  superfluity.  So  he  merely  remarked 
with  due  gravity;  "I  admit  you've  made  out  an  overwhelming 
case  for  'said  pegs'!"  And  he  shouted  his  orders  accordingly. 

They  filled  their  tumblers  in  silence,  avoiding  each  other's 
eyes.  Every  moment  emphasised  increasingly  all  that  the  de- 
tested verdict  implied.  No  more  polo  together.  No  more  sharing 
of  books  and  jokes  and  enthusiasms  and  violent  antipathies,  to 
which  both  were  prone.  No  more  'shoots'  in  the  Hills  beyond 
Kashmir. 

From  the  first  of  these  they  had  lately  returned:  —  sick-leave, 
in  Roy's  case;  and  the  programme  was  to  be  repeated  next  April, 
if  they  could '  wangle '  first  leave.  Each  knew  the  other  was  think- 
ing of  these  things.  But  they  seemed  entirely  occupied  in  quench- 
ing their  thirst,  and  their  disappointment,  in  deep  draughts  of 
sizzling  ice-cool  whiskey-and-soda.  Moreover  —  ignominious, 
but  true  —  when  the  tumblers  were  emptied,  things  did  begin  to 
look  a  shade  less  blue.  It  became  more  possible  to  discuss  plans. 
And  Desmond  was  feeling  distinctly  anxious  on  that  score.- 

"You  won't  be  shunted  instanter,"  he  remarked;  and  Roy 
smiled  at  the  reUef  in  his  tone. 


144  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Next  month,  I  suppose.  We  must  make  the  most  of  the  next 
few  weeks,  old  man." 

"And  then  —  what?  .  .  .  Home?" 

Roy  did  not  answer  at  once.  He  was  lying  back  again,  staring 
out  at  the  respectable  imitation  of  a  lawn,  its  central  rose-bed, 
carpeted  with  over-blown  mignonette;  at  a  lone,  untidy  tama- 
risk that  flung  a  spiky  shadow  on  the  grass.  And  the  eye  of 
his  mind  was  picturing  the  loveliest  lawn  of  his  acquaintance 
with  its  noble  twin  beeches  and  a  hammock  slung  between  —  an 
empty  casket ;  the  jewel  gone.  It  was  picturing  the  drawing-room ; 
the  restful  simplicity  of  its  cream-and-gold:  but  no  dear  and 
lovely  figure,  in  gold-flecked  sari,  lost  in  the  great  armchair.  Her 
window-seat  m  the  studio  —  empty.  No  one  in  a  *mother-o'- 
pearl  mood'  to  come  and  tuck  him  up  and  exchange  confidences, 
the  last  thing.  His  father,  also  invalided  out;  his  left  coat-sleeve 
half  empty,  where  the  forearm  had  been  removed. 

"N-no,"  he  said  at  last,  still  staring  at  the  unblinking  sun- 
shine. "Not  Home.  Not  yet  —  anyway." 

Then,  having  confessed,  he  turned  and  looked  straight  into  the 
eyes  of  his  friend  — the  hazel-grey  eyes  he  had  so  admired,  as 
a  small  boy,  because  of  the  way  they  darkened  with  anger  or 
strong  feeling.  And  he  admired  them  still.  "A  coward  — am 
I?  It's  not  a  flattering  conclusion.  But  I  suppose  it's  the  cold 

truth."  ,,      ,,  ,,. 

"It  hasn't  struck  me  that  way,"  Desmond  frankly  returned  his 

look.  J      .    T 

"That's  a  mercy.  But  —  if  one's  name  happened  to  be  Lance 
Desmond,  one  would  go  —  anyhow." 

"I  doubt  it.  The  place  must  be  simply  alive  -^  with  memo- 
ries. We  Anglo-Indians,  jogged  from  pillar  to  post,  know  pre- 
cious little  about  homes  like  yours.  A  man  —  can't  judge  — " 
"You're  a  generous  soul.  Lance!"  Roy  broke  out  with  sudden 
warmth.  "Anyway  —  coward  or  no  —  I  canH  face  —  the  ordeal, 
yet  awhile.  I  believe  my  father  will  understand.  After  all  — 
here  I  am  in  India,  as  planned,  before  the  Great  Interruption. 
So  —  given  the  chance,  I  might  as  well  take  it.  The  dear  old 
place  is  mostly  empty,  these  days  — with  Tiny  married  and 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  145 

Dad's  Air  Force  job  pinning  him  to  Town.  So  —  as  I  remarked 
before  —  !" 

"You'll  hang  on  here,  for  the  present?  Thank  God  for  that 
much." 

Desmond's  pious  gratitude  was  so  fervent  that  they  both  burst 
out  laughing;  and  their  laughter  cleared  the  air  of  ghosts. 

"Jaipur  it  is,  I  suppose,  as  planned.  Thea  will  be  overjoyed. 
Whether  Jaipur's  precisely  a  health  resort  — ?" 

"I'm  not  after  health  resorts.  I'm  after  knowledge  —  and  a 
few  other  things.  Not  Jaipur  first,  anyway.  The  moment  I  get 
the  official  order  of  the  boot  —  I'm  for  Chitor." 

"Chitor?"  Faint  increduUty  lurked  in  Desmond's  tone. 

"Yes  —  the  casket  that  enshrines  the  soul  of  a  race;  buried  in 
the  wilds  of  Rajasthan.  Ever  heard  tell  of  it,  you  arrant  Punjabi? 
Or  does  nothing  exist  for  you  south  of  Delhi?  " 

"Just  a  thing  or  two  —  not  to  mention  Thea!" 

"  Of  course  —  I  beg  her  pardon !  She  would  appreciate  Chitor." 

"Rather.  They  went  there  —  and  Udaipur,  last  year.  She's 
death  on  getting  Vincent  transferred.  And  the  Burra  Sahibs  are 
as  wax  in  her  hands.  If  they  happen  to  be  musical,  and  she  ap- 
plies the  fiddle,  they  haven't  an  earthly  — ! " 

Roy's  eyes  took  on  their  far-away  look. 

"It'll  be  truly  uplifting  to  see  her  —  and  hear  her  magic  fid- 
dle once  more,  if  she's  game  for  an  indefinite  dose  of  my  society. 
Anyway,  there's  my  grandfather  — " 

"Quite  superfluous,"  Desmond  interposed,  a  shade  too 
promptly.  "If  I  know  Thea,  she'll  hang  on  to  you  for  the  cold 
weather;  and  ensure  you  a  pieddterre  if  you  want  to  prowl  round 
Rajputana  and  give  the  bee  in  your  bonnet  an  airing!  You'll 
be  in  clover.  The  Residency's  a  sort  of  palace.  Not  precisely 
Thea's  ideal  of  bUss.  She's  a  Piffer^  at  heart;  and  her  social 
talents  don't  get  much  scope  down  there.  Only  half  a  dozen 
whites;  and  old  Vinx  buried  fathoms  deep  in  ethnology  writing 
a  book.  But,  being  Thea,  she  has  pitched  herself  head  fore- 
most, into  it  all.  Got  very  keen  on  Indian  women.  She's  mixed 
up  in  some  sort  of  a  romance  now.  A  girl  who's  been  educated 
*  Puajab  Irregular  Frontier  Force. 


t46  FAR  TO  SEEK 

at  home.  It  seems  an  unfailing  prescription  for  trouble.  I  rather 
fancy  she's  a  cousin  of  yours." 

Roy  started.  "  What  —  Aruna?  " 

"She  didn't  mention  the  name.  Only  ructions  —  and  Thea  to 
the  rescue!" 

"Poor  Aruna!  — She  stayed  in  England  a  goodish  time,  be- 
cause of  the  War  —  and  Dyan.  I've  not  heard  of  Dyan  for  an 
age;  and  I  don't  believe  they  have  either.  He  was  knocked  out  in 
1 91 5.  Lost  liis  left  arm.  Said  he  was  going  to  study  art  in  Cal- 
cutta —  I  wonder  —  ?  " 

Desmond  —  who  had  chiefly  been  talking  to  divert  the  current 
of  his  thoughts  —  noted,  with  satisfaction,  how  his  sunple  tactics 
had  taken  effect. 

"We'll  write  to-morrow— eh?"  said  he.  "Better  still— happy 
thought!  —  I'll  bear  down  on  Jaipur  myself,  for  Christmas  leave. 
Rare  fine  pig-sticking  in  those  parts." 

The  happy  thought  proved  a  master-stroke.  In  the  discussion 
of  plans  and  projects  Roy  became  almost  his  radiant  self  again: 
forgot,  for  one  merciful  hour,  that  he  was  dead,  damned,  and 
done  for  —  the  wraith  of  a  'Might-Have-Been.' 


Chapter  II 

Oh,  not  more  subtly  silence  strays 

Amongst  the  winds,  between  the  voices, .  . . 
Than  thou  art  present  in  my  days. 

My  silence,  life  returns  to  tfiee 

In  all  the  pauses  of  her  breath. 
And  thou,  wake,  ever  wake  for  me  I 

Alice  Meynell 

Some  five  weeks  later,  Roy  sat  alone  —  very  completely  and 
desolately  alone  —  in  a  whitewashed,  unhomely  room  that  every- 
where bore  the  stamp  of  dak  bungalow,  from  the  wobbly  teapoy  ^ 
at  his  elbow  to  the  board  of  printed  rules  that  adorned  the  empty 
mantelpiece.  The  only  cheering  thing  in  the  room  was  the  log 
fire  that  made  companionable  noises  and  danced  shadow-dances 
on  the  dingy  white  walls.  But  the  optimism  of  the  fire  was  dis- 
counted by  the  pessimism  of  the  lamp  that  seemed  specially 
constructed  to  produce  a  minimum  of  light  with  a  maximum  of 
smell  —  and  rank  kerosene  at  that. 

Dak  bungalows  had  seemed  good  fun,  in  the  days  of  his  leave, 
when  he  and  Lance  made  merry  over  their  well-worn  failings. 
But  it  was  quite  another  affair  to  smoke  the  pipe  of  compul- 
sory solitude  on  the  outskirts  of  Chitor,  hundreds  of  miles  away 
from  Kohat  and  the  Regiment;  to  feel  oneself  the  only  living 
being  in  a  succession  of  empty  rooms;  —  for  the  servants  were 
housed  in  their  own  little  colony  apart.  Not  a  sound  anywhere, 
except  the  whisper  of  falling  ash  and  the  regular  breathing  of 
Terry  curled  up  at  his  feet.  Solitude,  in  the  right  mood,  and  the 
right  place,  was  bread  and  wine  to  his  soul;  but  acute  loneliness 
of  the  dak  bungalow  order  was  not  in  the  bond.  For  four  years 
he  had  felt  himself  part  of  a  huge,  incarnate  purpose;  intimately 
part  of  his  Regiment  —  a  closely  knit  brotherhood  of  action. 
Now,  the  mere  fact  of  being  an  unattached  human  fragment 
»  Tripod  table. 


148  FAR  TO  SEEK 

oddly  intensified  his  feeling  of  isolation.  For,  with  all  his  indi- 
viduality, he  was  no  egoist,  and  very  much  a  lover  of  his  kind; 
faibued  with  the  spirit  of  the  quest,  yet  averse  by  temperament 
lo  ploughing  the  lonely  furrow. 

It  had  been  his  own  choice  —  if  you  could  call  it  so  —  starting 
this  way,  instead  of  in  the  friendly  atmosphere  of  Jaipur  Resi- 
dency. But  was  there  really  such  a  thing  as  choice?  In  effect,  he 
had  simply  obeyed  an  irresistible  impulse:  —  and  to-morrow,  he 
would  be  glad  of  it.  To-night,  after  that  interminable  journey, 
his  head  ached  atrociously.  He  felt  limp  as  a  wet  dishclout;  his 
nerves  all  out  of  gear  . . .  Perhaps  those  confounded  doctors  were 
not  such  fools  as  they  had  seemed.  He  cursed  himself  roundly  for 
a  spineless  ineffectual  —  messing  about  with  nerves  when  he  had 
been  lucky  enough  to  come  through  four  years  of  war  with  his 
full  complement  of  limbs  and  faculties  unimpaired.  Two  slight 
wounds,  a  passing  collapse,  from  utter  fatigue  and  misery,  soon 
after  his  mother's  death;  and  a  spell  of  chronic  dysentery,  during 
which  he  had  somehow  managed  to  keep  more  or  less  fit  for  duty; 
—  that  was  his  record  of  physical  damage,  in  a  war  that  had 
broken  its  tens  of  thousands  for  life. 

But  there  are  wounds  of  the  mind;  and  the  healing  of  them  is 
a  slow,  complex  affair.  Roy,  with  his  fastidious  sense  of  beauty, 
his  almost  morbid  shrinking  from  inflicted  pain,  had  suffered 
acutely,  where  more  robust  natures  scarcely  suffered  at  all. 
Yet  it  was  the  robust  that  went  to  pieces  —  which  was  one  of  the 
many  surprises  of  a  war  that  shattered  convictions  wholesale, 
and  challenged  modern  man  to  the  fiercest  trial  of  faith  at  a 
moment  when  Science  had  ahnost  stripped  him  bare  of  belief  in 
anything  outside  himself. 

Roy,  happily  for  him,  had  not  been  stripped  bare  of  belief;  and 
his  receptive  mind  had  been  ceaselessly  occupied  registering  im- 
pressions, to  be  flung  off,  later,  in  prose  and  verse,  that  She  might 
share  them  to  the  full.  A  slim  volume  —  pubHshed,  at  her  wish, 
in  1916  —  had  attracted  no  small  attention  m  the  critical  world. 
At  the  time,  he  had  deprecated  premature  rushings  into  print; 
but  afterwards  it  was  a  blessed  thing  to  remember  the  joy  he  had 
given  her  that  last  Christmas  —  the  very  last . . . 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  149 

On  the  battle-field,  if  there  had  been  nerve-shattering  moments, 
these  had  their  counterbalance  in  moments  when  the  spirit  of 
his  Rajput  ancestors  lived  again  in  him,  when  he  knew  neither 
shrinking  nor  horror  nor  pity:  and  in  moments  of  pure  pleasure, 
during  some  quiet  interlude,  when  larks  rained  music  out  of  the 
blue;  when  he  found  himself  alone  with  the  eerie  wonder  of  dawn 
over  the  scarred  and  riven  fields  of  death;  or  when  he  discovered 
his  Oriental  genius  for  scout  work  that  had  rapidly  earned  him 
distinction  and  sated  his  love  of  adventure  to  the  full. 

And  unfailingly  he  had  obeyed  his  mother's  parting  injunction. 
As  a  British  officer,  he  had  fought  for  the  Empire.  As  Roy 
Sinclair  —  son  of  Lilamani  —  he  had  fought  for  the  sanctities 
of  Home;  for  Beauty  —  intrinsic  beauty  of  mind  and  body  and 
soul  —  against  hideousness  and  licence  and  the  unclean  spirit 
that  could  defile  the  altar  of  God. 

And  always,  when  he  went  into  battle,  he  remembered  Chitor. 
Mentally,  he  put  on  the  saffron  robe,  insignia  of  *no  surrender.* 
To  be  taken  prisoner  was  the  one  fate  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  contemplate:  yet  that  very  fate  had  befallen  him  and  Lance 
in  Mesopotamia  —  the  sequel  of  a  daring  and  successful  raid. 

Returning,  in  the  teeth  of  unexpected  difficulties,  they  had 
found  themselves  ambushed,  with  their  handful  of  men  —  out- 
numbered, no  loophole  for  escape. 

For  three  months,  that  seemed  more  like  three  years,  they  had 
lost  all  sense  of  personal  Hberty  —  the  oxygen  of  the  soul.  They 
had  endured  misery,  semi-starvation,  and  occasionally  other 
things,  such  as  a  man  cannot  bring  himself  to  speak  about  or 
consciously  to  recall:  not  least,  the  awful  sense  of  being  powerless 
—  and  hated.  From  the  beginning,  they  had  kept  their  minds 
occupied  entirely  with  ingenious  plans  for  escape,  that,  at  times, 
seemed  like  base  desertion  of  their  men,  whom  they  could  neither 
help  nor  save.  But  when  —  as  by  a  miracle  —  the  coveted 
chance  came,  no  power  on  earth  could  have  stayed  them . . . 

It  had  been  a  breathless  affair,  demanding  all  they  possessed 
of  bodily  fleetness  and  suppleness,  of  cool,  yet  reckless,  courage. 
And  it  had  been  crowned  with  success;  the  good  news  wired 
home  to  mothers  who  waited  and  prayed.  But  Roy's  nerves  had 


150  FAR  TO  SEEK 

suffered  more  severely  than  Desmond's.  A  sharp  attack  of  fever 
had  completed  his  prostration.  And  it  was  then,  in  his  moment 
of  passing  weakness,  that  Fate  turned  and  smote  him  with  the 
sharpest  weapon  in  her  armoury  .  .  . 

'  He  had  not  even  heard  his  mother  was  ill.  He  had  just  re- 
ceived her  ecstatic  response  to  his  wire  —  and  that  very  night 
she  came  to  him,  vividly,  as  he  hovered  on  the  confines  of  sleep  — 

There  she  stood  by  his  bed,  in  her  mother-o'-pearl  gown  and 
sari;  clear  in  every  detail;  lips  just  parted;  a  hovering  smile  in  her 
eyes.  And  round  about  her  a  shimmering  radiance,  as  of  moon- 
beams, heightened  her  loveliness,  yet  seemed  to  set  her  apart; 
so  that  he  could  neither  touch  her,  nor  utter  a  word  of  welcome. 
He  could  only  gaze  and  gaze,  while  his  heart  beat  in  long  slow 
hammer-strokes,  with  a  double  throb  between. 

With  a  gesture  of  mute  yearning  her  hands  went  out  to  him. 
She  stooped  low  and  lower.  A  faint  breeze  seemed  to  fUt  across 
his  forehead  as  if  her  lips,  lightly  brushing  it,  had  breathed  a 
blessing. 

Then,  darkness  fell  abruptly  —  and  a  deep  sleep  .  .  . 

He  woke  late,  next  morning:  woke  to  a  starthng,  terrible  cer- 
tainty that  his  vision  had  been  no  dream;  that  her  very  self  had 
come  to  him  —  that  she  was  gone  .  .  . 

When  the  bitter  truth  reached  him,  he  learnt,  without  surprise, 
that  on  the  night  of  his  vision  her  spirit  passed  .  .  . 

It  was  a  sharp  attack  of  pneumonia  that  gave  her  the  coup  de 
grace.  But,  in  effect,  the  War  had  killed  her,  as  it  killed  many 
another  h3rpersensitive  woman,  who  could  not  become  inured  to 
horror  on  horror,  tragedy  on  tragedy,  whose  heart  ached  for  the 
sorrows  of  others  as  if  they  were  her  own.  And  her  personal  share 
had  sufficiently  taxed  her  endurance,  without  added  pangs  for 
others,  unseen  and  unknown.  George  —  her  baby  —  had  gone 
down  in  the  Queen  Mary.  Jerry,  too  early  sent  out  to  France, 
had  crashed  behind  the  German  lines;  and  after  months  of  un- 
certainty they  had  heard  he  was  alive,  wounded  —  in  German 
hands.  Tara,  faithful  to  the  Woman's  Hospital  in  Serbia,  had 
been  constantly  in  danger,  living  and  moving  among  unimag- 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  151 

inable  horrors.  NevU,  threatened  with  septic  poisoning,  had  only 
been  saved  at  the  cost  of  his  left  forearm.  Not  till  he  was  inva- 
hded  out,  near  the  close  of  1916,  had  he  reaUsed  —  too  late  — 
that  she  was  kilhng  herself  by  inches,  with  work  that  alone  could 
leaven  anxiety  —  up  to  a  point. 

But  it  was  the  shock  of  Roy's  unprisonment  and  the  agony 
of  suspense  that  finally  stretched  her  nerve  to  breaking  point; 
so  that  the  sudden  onslaught  of  pneumonia  had  slain  her  in  the 
space  of  a  week.  And  Roy,  knowmg  her  too  well,  had  guessed 
the  truth,  m  spite  of  his  father's  brave  attempt  to  shield  hun 
from  it. 

His  first  letter  from  that  bereft  father,  written  m  the  nadir  of 
grief  and  lonehness,  had  been  little  short  of  a  revelation  to  the 
son  who  had  ventured  to  suppose  he  knew  him:  a  rash  supposi- 
tion where  any  human  being  is  concerned.  There  had  been 
more  than  one  such  revelation  in  the  scores  of  letters  that  at  once 
uphf ted  and  overwhehned  him,  and  increased  tenfold  his  pride  in 
being  her  son.  But  outshining  all,  and  utterly  unexpected,  was  a 
letter  from  herself,  written  m  those  last  days,  when  the  others  still 
hoped  against  hope,  but  she  knew  — 

It  had  come,  with  his  father's,  in  a  small,  gold-embroidered 
bag  —  scent  and  colour  and  exquisite  needlework  all  eloquent  of 
her;  and  with  it  came  the  other,  her  talisman  since  he  was  born. 
Reaching  hun  while  brain  and  body  still  reeled  under  the  be- 
wildering sense  of  loss,  it  had  soothed  his  agony  of  pain  and  re- 
bellion like  the  touch  of  her  fingers  on  his  forehead;  had  taken 
the  stmg  from  death  and  robbed  the  grave  of  victory  .  . . 

To-night,  in  his  lonehness,  he  drew  the  slun  bag  out  of  an  inner 
pocket,  and  re-read  with  his  eyes  the  words  that  were  imprmted 
on  his  memory. 

Roy,  son  of  my  heart, 

This  is  good-bye  —  but  not  altogether  good-bye.  Between  you  and 
me  that  word  can  never  be  spoken.  So  I  am  writing  this,  in  my  foolish 
weakness,  to  beg  of  you  —  by  the  love  between  us,  too  deep  for  words 
—  not  to  let  heart  and  courage  be  quite  broken  because  of  this  big  sor- 
row. You  were  brave  in  battle,  my  Prithvi  Raj.   Be  still  more  brave 


152  FAR  TO  SEEK 

for  me.  Remember  I  am  Lilamani  —  Jewel  of  Delight.  That  I  have 
tried  to  be  in  my  life,  for  every  one  of  you.  That  I  wish  to  be  always. 
So  I  ask  you,  my  darling,  not  to  make  me  a  Jewel  of  Sorrow  because  I 
have  passed  into  the  Next  Door  House  too  soon.  Though  not  seen,  I 
will  never  for  long  be  far  from  you.  That  is  my  faith;  and  you  must 
share  it;  helping  your  dear  father,  because  for  him  the  way  of  belief  is 
hard. 

Never  forget  those  beautiful  words  of  Fouquet  in  which  you  made 
dedication  of  your  poems  to  me:  'How  blessed  is  the  son  to  whom  it  is 
allowed  to  gladden  his  mother's  heart  with  the  blossom  and  fruit  of  his 
life!'  And  you  will  still  gladden  it,  DUkusha.  I  will  still  share  your 
work,  though  in  different  fashion  than  we  hoped.  Only  keep  your  man- 
hood pure  and  the  windows  of  your  spirit  clear,  so  the  Light  can  shine 
through.  Then  you  will  know  if  I  speak  truth  and  you  will  not  feel 
altogether  alone. 

Oh,  Roy,  I  could  write  and  write  till  the  pen  drops.  My  heart  is  too 
full,  but  my  hand  is  too  feeble  for  more.  Only  this,  when  your  time 
comes  for  marriage,  I  pray  you  will  be  to  your  wife  all  that  your  splen- 
did father  has  been  for  me  —  king  and  lover  and  companion  of  body 
and  spirit.  Draw  nearer  than  ever,  you  two,  because  of  your  so  beauti- 
ful love  for  me  —  unseen  now,  but  with  you  always.  God  bless  you.  I 
can  write  no  more. 

Your  devoted  Mother. 

The  last  lines  wavered  and  ran  together.  In  spite  of  her  in- 
junction, tears  would  come.  Chill  and  unheeded,  they  slipped 
dowm  his  cheeks,  while  he  folded  his  treasure,  and  put  it  away 
with  the  other,  that  went  to  his  head,  a  little,  as  she  had  foreseen; 
though  in  the  event,  it  had  been  overshadowed  by  her  own,  than 
which  she  could  have  left  him  no  dearer  legacy.  In  life,  she  had 
been  an  angel  of  God.  In  death,  she  was  still  his  angel  of  comfort 
and  healing.  She  had  bidden  him  share  her  belief;  and  he  never 
had  felt  altogether  alone.  Sustained  by  that  inner  conviction,  he 
had  somehow  adapted  himself  to  the  strangeness  of  a  life  empty 
of  her  physical  presence.  The  human  being,  in  a  world  of  pain, 
like  the  insect  in  a  world  of  danger,  lives  mainly  by  that  same 
ceaseless,  unconscious  miracle  of  adaptation.  Dearly  though  he 
craved  a  sight  of  his  father  and  Christine,  he  had  not  asked  for 
leave  home.  There  were  bad  moments  when  he  wondered  if  he 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  153 

could  ever  bring  himself  to  face  the  ordeal.  He  sincerely  hoped 
they  understood.  Their  letters  left  an  impression  that  it  was  so. 
Jeflfers  obviously  did. 

And  Tara — ?  Her  belated  letter,  from  the  wilds  of  Serbia, 
had  revealed,  in  every  line,  that  she  understood  only  too  well. 
For  Tara,  not  long  before,  had  passed  through  her  own  or- 
deal —  the  death,  in  a  brilliant  air  fight,  of  her  second  brother 
Atholl,  her  devotee  and  hero  from  nursery  days.  So  when  Roy*s 
turn  came,  her  fulness  of  sympathy  and  understanding  were  out- 
stretched like  wings  to  shield  him,  if  might  be,  even  a  little, 
from  the  worst  as  she  had  known  it. 

For  that  once,  she  flung  aside  the  veil  of  *  grown-up'  reserves 
and  wrote  straight  from  her  eager,  passionate  heart  to  the  Brace- 
let-Bound Brother,  unseen  for  years,  yet  linked  with  her  by  an 
imperishable  memory;  and  now  linked  closer  still,  by  a  mutual 
grief. 

The  comfort  to  Roy  of  that  spontaneous,  Tara-like  outpouring 
had  been  greater  than  she  knew  —  than  he  could  ever  let  her 
know.  For  the  old  intimacy  had  never  been  quite  re-established 
between  them  since  the  day  of  his  tactless  juvenile  proposal  — 
for  so  he  saw  it  now.  They  had  only  met  that  once,  when  he  was 
home  for  Christmas.  On  the  second  occasion,  they  hlad  missed. 
Throughout  the  War  they  had  corresponded  fitfully;  but  her 
letters,  though  affectionate  and  sisterly,  lacked  an  unseizable 
something  that  insensibly  affected  the  tone  of  his  response.  He 
had  been  rash  enough,  once,  to  presume  on  their  special  relation. 
But  he  was  no  longer  a  boy;  and  he  had  his  pride. 

He  wondered  sometimes  how  it  would  be  if  they  met  again. 
Would  he  fall  in  love  with  her?  She  was  supreme.  No  one  like 
her.  But  he  knew  now  —  as  she  had  instinctively  known  then  — 
that  his  conviction  on  that  score  did  not  amount  to  being  in  love. 
Conviction  must  be  lit  and  warmed  with  the  fire  of  passion.  And 
you  couldn't  very  well  fall  in  love  across  six  thousand  miles  of 
sea.  Certainly  none  of  the  girls  he  had  danced  with  and  ridden 
with  since  his  arrival  in  India  had  affected  him  that  way.  And 
for  him  marriage  was  an  important  consideration.  Some  day  he 
supposed  it  would  confront  him  as  an  urgent  personal  issue.  But 


154  FAR  TO  SEEK 

there  was  a  tremendous  lot  to  be  done  first;  and  girls  were  kittle 
cattle. 

Unsuspected  by  him,  the  intimate  relation  with  his  mother  — 
while  it  quickened  his  need  for  woman's  enveloping  tenderness 
and  sympathy  —  insensibly  held  his  heart  in  leash  by  setting  up 
a  standard  to  which  the  modern  girl  rarely  aspired,  much  less 
attained. 

And,  now  she  was  gone,  in  some  strange,  enthralling  way  she 
held  him  still.  At  rare  intervals  she  came  again  to  him  in  dreams; 
or  when  he  hovered  on  the  verge  of  sleep.  Dreams  or  visions, 
they  persisted  as  clearly  in  memory  as  any  waking  act,  and  un- 
failingly left  a  vivid  after-sense  of  having  been  in  touch  with  her 
very  self.  More  and  more  conviction  deepened  in  him  that  she 
still  had  joy  in  'the  blossom  and  fruit  of  his  life';  that  even  in 
death  she  was  nearer  to  him  than  many  living  mothers  to  their 
sons. 

A  strange  experience:  strangest  of  all,  perhaps,  the  simplicity 
with  which  he  came  to  accept  it  as  part  of  the  natural  order  of 
things.  The  intuitive  brain  is  rarely  analytical.  Moreover,  he 
had  seen;  he  had  felt;  he  knew.  It  is  the  invincible  argument  of 
the  mystic.  Against  beHef  born  of  vivid,  reiterate  experience,  the 
loquacity  of  logic,  the  formulae  of  pure  intellect  break  like  waves 
upon  a  rock  —  and  with  as  little  result.  The  intensity  and  per- 
sistence of  Roy's  experience  simply  left  no  room  for  insidious 
whispers  of  doubt;  nor  could  he  have  tolerated  such  scepticism  in 
others,  natural  though  it  might  be,  if  one  had  not  seen,  nor  felt, 
nor  known. 

So  he  neither  wrote  nor  spoke  of  it  to  anyone.  He  could  scarce 
have  kept  it  from  Tara,  the  sister-child  who  had,  shared  all  his 
thoughts  and  dreams;  but  the  grown-up  Tara  had  become  too 
remote  in  every  sense  for  a  confidence  so  intimate,  so  sacred.  To 
his  father  he  would  fain  have  confided  everything,  remembering 
her  last  command;  but  Sir  Nevil's  later  letters  —  though  unfail- 
ingly sympathetic  —  were  not  calculated  to  evoke  filial  outpour- 
ings. For  the  time  being,  he  seemed  to  have  shut  himself  in  with 
his  grief.  Perhaps  he,  of  all  others,  had  been  least  able  to  under- 
stand Roy's  failure  to  press  for  short  leave  home.    He  had  said 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  155 

very  little  on  the  subject.  And  Roy  —  with  the  instinct  of  sensi- 
tive natures  to  take  their  tone  from  others  —  had  also  said  little: 
too  little,  perhaps.  Least  said  may  be  soonest  mended;  but  there 
are  times  when  it  may  widen  a  rift  to  a  gulf. 

In  the  end,  he  had  felt  impelled  at  least  to  mention  his  dream 
experiences  and  let  it  rest  with  his  father  whether  he  said  any 
more. 

And,  by  return  mail,  came  a  brief  but  poignant  answer: 

Thank  you,  my  dearest  Boy,  for  telling  me  what  you  did.  It  is  a  re- 
lief to  know  you  have  some  sort  of  comfort  —  if  only  in  dreams.  You 
are  fortunate  to  be  so  made.  After  all,  for  purposes  of  comfort  and 
guidance,  one's  capacity  to  believe  in  such  commimion  is  the  measure 
of  its  reality.  As  for  me,  I  am  still  utterly,  desolately  alone.  Perhaps 
some  day  she  will  reach  me  in  spite  of  my  little  faith.  People  who  re- 
sort to  mediums  and  the  automatic  writing  craze  are  beyond  me: 
though  the  temptation  I  understand.  You  may  remember  a  sentence 
of  Maeterlinck  —  "We  have  to  grope  timidly  and  make  sure  of  every 
footstep,  as  we  cross  the  threshold.  And  even  when  the  threshold  is 
crossed,  where  shall  certainty  be  found  —  ?  One  cannot  speak  of  these 
things  —  the  solitude  is  too  great."  That  is  my  own  feeling  about  it  — 
at  present. 

The  last  had  given  Roy  an  impression  that  his  solitude,  how- 
ever desolating,  was  a  sort  of  sanctuary,  not  to  be  shared  as  yet, 
even  with  his  son.  And,  in  the  face  of  such  loneliness,  it  seemed 
almost  cruel  to  enlarge  on  his  own  clear  sense  of  intimate  com- 
munion with  her  who  had  been  imfailingly  their  Jewel  of  De- 
Ught. 

So,  by  degrees  —  in  the  long  months  of  separation  from  them 
all  —  his  ethereal  link  with  her  had  come  to  feel  closer  and  more 
real  than  his  link  with  those  others,  still  in  the  flesh,  yet  strangely 
remote  from  his  inner  life. 

To-night  —  after  readmg  both  letters  —  that  sense  of  near- 
ness seemed  stronger  than  ever.  Could  it  be  that  the  resistless 
magnetism  of  India  was  in  the  nature  of  an  intimation  from  her 
that  for  the  present  his  work  lay  here?  By  the  hidden  forces  that 
mould  men's  lives  he  had  been  drawn  to  the  land  of  heart's  de- 


156  FAR  TO  SEEK 

sire]  and  at  home,  neither  his  family  nor  his  country  seemed  to 
have  any  particular  need  of  him.  Whether  or  no  India  had  need 
of  him,  he  assuredly  had  need  of  her.  And  it  was  the  very 
strength  of  that  feeling  which  had  given  him  pause. 

But  now,  at  last,  he  knew,  beyond  cavil,  that,  for  all  his  mind 
—  or  was  it  his  conscience?  —  might  haver  and  split  straws,  he 
had  been  drawn  to  Rajputana  as  irresistibly  as  if  that  vast 
desert  region  were  the  moon  and  he  a  wavelet  on  the  tidal  shore. 

With  a  great  sigh  he  rose,  yawned  cavemously,  and  shivered. 
Better  get  to  bed  and  to  sleep:  —  a  bed  that  didn't  clank  and 
jolt  and  batter  your  brains  to  a  pulp.  Things  would  look  amaz- 
ingly different  in  the  morning. 


Chapter  HI 

Darkness  and  soUtttde  shine  for  me. 

For  life's  fair  outward  part,  are  rife 
The  silver  noises;  let  them  be. 

It  is  the  very  soul  of  life 
Listens  for  thee,  listens  for  thee. 

AuCE  Meynell 

The  depressingly  bare,  whitewashed  bedroom  owned  a  French 
bedstead,  with  brass  rails;  —  a  welcome  'find'  in  a  dak  bunga- 
low, especially  after  three  very  broken  nights  in  an  Indian  train. 
Tired  to  the  point  of  stupefaction,  Roy  promised  hknself  he 
would  sleep  the  clock  roimd,  eat  a  three-decker  Anglo-Indian 
breakfast,  and  thereafter  be  his  own  man  again.  In  that  faith 
he  laid  his  head  on  the  least  lumpy  portion  of  the  pillow  —  and 
in  less  than  five  minutes  found  himself  quite  intolerably  wide 
awake. 

Though  the  bedstead  neither  repudiated  him  nor  took  liber- 
ties with  his  person,  ghostly  clankings  and  vibrations  still  jarred 
his  nerves  and  played  devil's  times  in  his  brain.  Though  he 
kept  his  eyeUds  severely  closed,  sleep  —  the  coveted  anodyne  — 
seemed  to  hover  on  the  misty  edge  of  things,  always  just  out  of 
reach.  His  body  was  over-tired,  his  brain  abnormally  alert. 
Each  change  of  position,  that  was  to  be  positively  the  last,  lost 
its  virtue  in  the  space  of  three  minutes,  till  the  sheet  —  that  was 
too  narrow  for  the  mattress  —  became  ruckled  mto  hills  and 
valleys  and  made  things  worse  than  ever.  Having  started  like 
this,  he  knew  hmiself  capable  of  keeping  it  up  gaily  till  the  small 
hours;  and  to-night,  of  all  nights  — 

Even  through  his  closed  eyelids,  he  was  still  aware  that  his 
verandah  doorway  framed  a  wide  panel  of  moonlight  —  the  al- 
most incredible  moonlight  of  India.  He  had  flimg  it  open  as  usual 
and  rolled  up  the  chick.  A  bedroom  hermetically  sealed  made 
him  feel  suffocated,  imprisoned;  so  he  must,  perforce,  put  up 


158  FAR  TO  SEEK 

with  the  moon;  and  when  the  world  was  drowned  in  her  radiance 
sleep  seemed  almost  a  sin.  But  to-night,  moon  or  no,  he  craved 
sleep  as  an  opium-eater  craves  his  magic  pellets;  —  because  he 
wanted  to  dream.  It  was  many  weeks  since  he  last  had  sight  of 
his  mother.  But  he  knew  she  must  be  near  him  in  his  loneli- 
ness; aware,  in  some  mysterious  fashion,  of  the  deep  longing 
with  which  he  longed  for  sight  or  sense  of  her,  to  assure  him 
that  —  in  spite  of  qualms  and  indecisions  —  he  had  chosen 
aright.  Conviction  grew  that  directly  the  veil  of  sleep  fell  he 
would  see  her.  It  magnified  his  insomnia  from  mere  discomfort 
to  a  baffing,  inimical  presence  withholding  him  from  her:  —  till 
at  last  utter  weariness  blotted  out  everything  —  and  even  as  he 
hovered  on  the  verge  of  sleep,  she  was  there  .  .  . 

She  was  lying  in  her  hammock  under  the  beeches,  in  her  apple- 
blossom  sari,  sunlight  flickering  through  the  leaves.  And  he  saw 
his  own  figure  moving  towards  her  —  without  the  least  surprise 
that  he  could  see  and  hear  himself  as  another  being  while  still 
remaining  inside  himself. 

He  heard  his  own  voice  say,  low  and  fervently,  "Beloved  little 
Mother  —  I  am  here.  Always  in  the  battle  I  remembered  Chitor. 
Now  —  turned  out  of  the  battle  —  I  have  come  to  Chitor." 

Then  he  was  on  his  knees  beside  her;  and  her  fingers,  light  as 
thistledown,  strayed  over  his  hair,  in  the  ghost  of  a  caress  that 
so  unfailingly  stilled  his  excitable  spirit.  Without  actual  words, 
by  some  miracle  of  interpenetration,  she  seemed  to  know  all 
that  was  in  his  heart  —  the  perplexities  and  indecisions;  the 
magnetism  of  Home  and  the  dread  of  it;  the  difficulty  of  making 
things  clear  to  his  father.  And  the  magic  of  her  touch  charmed 
away  all  headache  and  heartache.  But  when  he  rose  impul- 
sively, and  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  —  she  was  gone; 
everything  was  gone;  —  the  hammock,  the  beeches,  the  sun- 
beams .  .  . 

He  was  standing  alone  on  a  moonlit  plain,  blotched  and 
streaked  with  shadows  of  dak-jungle  and  date-palm;  and  rising 
out  of  it  abruptly  —  as  he  had  seen  it  last  night  —  loomed  the 
black  bulk  of  Chitor  —  the  sacred,  solitary  ghost  of  a  city,  linked 
with  his  happiest  days  of  childhood  and  his  mother's  heroic  tales. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  159 

The  great  rock  was  scarped  and  bastioned,  every  line  of  it.  The 
walls,  ruined  in  parts,  showed  ghostly  shades  of  ruins  beyond; 
and  soaring  high  above  all,  Khumba  Rana's  nine-storied  Tower 
of  Victory  lifted  a  giant  finger  to  the  unheeding  heavens.  Watch- 
ing it,  fascinated,  trying  in  vain  to  make  out  details,  he  was  star- 
tlingly  beset  by  the  strangest  among  many  strange  sensations 
that  had  visited  his  imaginative  brain :  nothing  less  than  a  revival 
of  the  long-ago  dream-feeling,  the  strange  sense  of  familiarity  — 
he  knew!  Beyond  all  cavil,  he  knew  every  line  of  that  looming 
shadow,  every  curve  of  the  hills.  He  knew  the  exact  position  of 
the  old  bridge  over  the  Gamberi  River.  From  the  spot  where  he 
stood  he  could  find  his  way  unerringly  to  the  Padal  Pol;  the 
fortified  entrance  to  the  road  of  Seven  Gates;  —  the  road  that 
had  witnessed  three  times  in  three  hundred  years  that  heroic 
alternative  to  surrender,  the  terrible  rite  of  Johur:  —  the  final 
down-rush  of  every  male  defender,  wearing  the  saffron  robe 
and  coronet  of  him  who  embraces  death  as  a  bride;  the  awful 
slaughter  at  the  lowest  gate,  where  they  fell,  every  man  of  them, 
before  the  victors  entered  in  .  .  . 

The  horror  and  savage  exaltation  of  it  all  stirred,  so  sensibly, 
in  his  veins  that  he  caught  himself  dimly  wondering  —  was  it  he, 
Roy  Sinclair,  who  stood  there  remembering  these  things  —  or 
another  .  .  .  ? 

And  before  that  crazy  question  could  resolve  itself  —  behold 
he  was  lying  wide  awake  again  in  his  ruckled  bed,  on  the  lumpy 
pillow,  staring  at  the  wide  patch  of  moonlight  framed  by  his  open 
door. 

Not  morning  yet,  confound  it  all!  But  the  tiredness  and  loneli- 
ness were  clean  gone.  It  was  always  so  when  she  came  to  him 
thus.  Tacitly  he  knew  it,  and  she  knew  it,  for  a  visitation.  There 
was  no  delusion  of  having  got  her  back  again;  only  the  comfort- 
ing assurance  that  she  was  near  him  still.  There  was  also,  on  this 
occasion,  a  consuming  curiosity  and  impatience  not  to  be  denied. 

Switching  on  his  electric  torch,  he  consulted  his  watch. 
Nearly  half -past  four  —  why  not .  .  .  ?  It  was  no  distance  to  the 
lower  gate;  and  only  a  mile  of  zigzag  road  up  to  the  city. 

Thought  and  action  were  almost  simultaneous.  He  was  out  of 


i6o  FAR  TO  SEEK 

bed,  standing  in  the  doorway.  Unclouded  brilliance  seemed  to 
flood  his  brain;  to  clear  it  of  cobwebs  and  dispel  all  desire  of 
sleep.  For  he  loved  the  veiled  spirit  of  night  as  most  men  love 
the  im veiled  face  of  morning;  and  in  no  way,  perhaps,  was  he 
more  clearly  of  the  East.  In  a  laud  where  the  sun  slays  his  thou- 
sands, the  moon  comes  triumphantly  to  her  own:  and  Roy  de- 
cided, there  and  then,  that  in  the  glamour  of  her  light  he  would 
take  his  first  look  at  Chitor.  Whether  or  no  it  really  was  his 
first  look,  he  might  possibly  find  out  when  he  got  there. 

His  train-basket  provided  him  with  a  hurried  cup  of  tea,  bis- 
cuits, and  a  providential  hard-boiled  egg.  He  had  no  qualms 
about  rousing  Bishun  Singh  to  saddle  Suraj,  or  disturbing  the 
soldiery  quartered  at  the  gates.  His  grandfather  had  written  of 
him  to  the  Maharana  of  Udaipur  —  a  cousin  in  the  third  degree: 
and  he  had  leave  to  go  in  and  out,  during  his  stay,  at  what  hour 
he  pleased.  He  would  remain  on  the  rock  till  dawn;  and  from  the 
ninth  storey  of  Khumba  Rana's  Tower  he  would  see  the  sun  rise 
over  Chitor  .  .  . 

Half  an  hour  later,  he  was  in  the  saddle  trotting  along  the 
empty  road;  Terry  a  scurrying  shadow  in  his  wake;  Bishun 
Singh  left  to  finish  his  night's  rest.  Right  before  him  loomed  the 
magnet  that  had  dragged  him  out  of  bed  at  this  unearthly  hour 
—  the  great  rock  fortress,  three  miles  long,  less  than  a  mile 
broad,  aptly  likened  to  a  battleship  ploughing  through  the  dis- 
turbed sea  of  bush-grown  hills  at  its  base. 

Riding  quickly  through  new  Chitor  —  a  dirty  little  tow^n,  fast 
asleep  —  he  reached  the  fortified  gateway;  was  challenged  by 
sleepy  soldiery;  gave  his  name  and  passed  on  —  into  another 
world;  a  world  that  grew  increasingly  famiHar  with  every  hun- 
dred yards  of  ascent. 

At  one  point  he  halted  abreast  of  two  rough  monuments, 
graves  of  the  valiant  pair  who  had  fought  and  died,  like  Raj- 
puts, in  that  last  terrible  onslaught  when  the  hosts  of  Akbar  en- 
tered in,  over  the  bodies  of  eight  thousand  saffron-robed  warriors, 
and  made  Chitor  a  place  of  desolation  for  ever.  One  —  a  mere 
boy  of  sixteen  —  was  the  only  son  of  his  house.  Beside  him, 
lance  in  hand,  fought  his  widowed  mother  and  girl  wife;  and  in 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  i6i 

death  they  were  not  divided.  The  other,  Jaimul  of  Bednore, 
was  a  far-away  ancestor  of  his  own  mother.  —  How  often  she  had 
told  hini  the  tale!  —  adding  proudly  that,  while  Rajasthan  en- 
dured, the  names  of  those  two  would  shine  clear  in  the  firma- 
ment of  time,  as  stars  in  the  firmament  of  space. 

Through  gateway  after  gateway  —  under  the  lee  of  a  twenty- 
foot  wall  pierced  for  musketry,  he  passed,  a  silent  shadow. 
And  gradually  there  stole  over  him  afresh  the  confused  wonder 
of  his  dream  —  was  it  he  himself  who  rode  —  or  was  it  —  that 
other,  returning  to  the  sacred  city  after  long  absence?  For  the 
moment  he  could  hardly  tell.  But  —  what  matter?  The  aston- 
ishing thrill  of  recognition  was  all . . . 

Roundabout  the  seventh  gateway  clustered  the  semblance  of  a 
village;  shrouded,  slumbering  forms  strewn  arovmd  in  the  open;  — 
ghosts  all.  The  only  instant  realities  were  himself  and  Suraj  and 
Chitor  and  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  earth,  watched  over  by  the 
unsleeping  stars.  Within,  and  about  him,  hovered  a  stirring  con- 
sciousness of  ancient,  unchanging  India;  utterly  impervious  to 
mere  birds  of  passage  from  the  West;  veiled,  elusive,  j'et  almost 
hideously  real.  So  real  just  then  to  Roy  that  —  for  a  few 
amazing  moments  —  he  was  unaware  that  he  rode  through  a  city 
forsaken  by  man.  Ghosts  of  houses  and  temples  slid  by  on  either 
side  of  him,  as  he  spurred  Suraj  to  a  canter  and  made  unerringly 
for  the  main  palace.  There  was  news  for  the  Rdna  —  news  of 
Akbar's  army  —  that  did  not  brook  delay  . . . 

Not  till  Suraj  stopped  dead  —  there  where  the  palace  had 
once  stood  in  its  glory  —  did  he  come  to  himself,  as  abruptly  as 
when  he  waked  in  the  French  bedstead  an  hour  ago. 

Gone  was  the  populous  city  through  which  he  had  ridden  in 
fancy;  gone  the  confusion  of  himself  with  that  other  self  —  how 
many  centuries  old?  But  the  familiar  look  of  the  palace  was  no 
dream;  nor  the  fact  that  he  had  instinctively  made  his  way  there 
at  full  speed.  Bastioned  and  sharply  domed,  it  stood  before  him 
in  clear  outline;  but  within  it  was  hollow  as  a  skull;  a  place  of 
ghosts.  Suddenly  there  came  over  him  the  old  childish  dread 
of  dark,  that  he  had  never  quite  outgrown.  But,  dread  or  no, 
explore  it  he  must . . . 


i62  FAR  TO  SEEK 

As  his  foot  touched  earth,  a  low  hiss  warned  him  he  was  tres- 
passing, and  while,  clutching  Terry's  collar,  he  stood  rigid,  the 
whip-like  shadow  of  death  writhed  across  a  strip  of  moonlight 
—  and  disappeared.  There  was  life  —  of  a  sort  —  in  Chitor. 
So  Roy  trod  warily  as  he  passed  from  room  to  room;  dread  of 
dark  forgotten  in  the  weird  fascination  of  foreknowledge  verified 
without  fail. 

Through  riven  walls  and  roofs  moonlight  streamed  in:  its 
spectral  brightness  intensifying  every  patch  or  streak  of  shadow. 
And  there,  where  kings  and  princes  had  held  audience  —  watched 
by  their  womenfolk  through  fretted  screens  —  was  neither  roof 
nor  walls;  only  a  group  of  marble  pillars,  as  it  were  assembled  in 
ghostly  conference.  The  stark  silence  and  emptiness  —  not  of 
yesterday,  but  of  centuries  —  smote  him  with  a  personal  pang. 
From  end  to  end  of  the  rock  it  brooded;  a  haunting  presence  — 
tutelary  goddess  of  Chitor.  There  is  an  emptiness  of  the  open 
desert,  of  an  untrodden  snowfield,  that  lifts  the  soul  and  sets  it 
face  to  face  with  God;  but  the  emptiness  of  a  city  forsaken  is  that 
of  a  body  with  the  spark  of  life  extinct:  — '  the  silver  cord  loosed, 
the  golden  bowl  broken,  and  the  pitcher  broken  at  the  foun- 
tain .  .  .' 

Terry's  sharp  bark,  a  squawk,  and  a  scufile  of  wings  made  him 
start  violently  and  jarred  him  all  through.  It  seemed  almost  pro- 
fane; as  if  one  were  in  a  cathedral.  Calling  the  marauder  to  heel, 
he  mounted  and  rode  on  towards  the  Tower  of  Victory.  For 
the  moon  was  dipping  westward;  and  he  must  see  that  vast  view 
bathed  in  moonlight:  —  then  the  dawn  — 

Once  more  deserting  Suraj,  he  confronted  Khumba's  Tower; 
scatheless,  as  the  builder's  hand  left  it  four  centuries  ago.  Mas- 
sive and  arrogant,  it  loomed  above  him.  Scarcely  a  foot  of  stone 
uncarven,  so  far  as  he  could  see  —  exploring  the  four-square 
base  of  it  with  the  aid  of  the  moon  and  his  torch.  Figures,  in 
high  relief,  everywhere  —  animal,  human,  and  divine;  a  riot  of 
impossible  forms,  impossibly  intertwined;  ghoulish  in  any  as- 
pect; and  in  moonlight  hideously  so:  —  bewildering,  repellent, 
frankly  obscene.  But  even  while  his  cultured  eye  rejected  it  all, 
some  infinitesimal  fragment  of  himself  knew  there  was  sym- 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS   '  '  163 

bolic  meaning  in  that  orgy  of  sculpture  could  one  but  find  the 
key. 

Up  and  up,  round  and  round  the  inner  spiral  staircase  he 
climbed,  in  a  creepsome  darkness,  invaded  by  moonbeams,  hardly 
less  creepsome,  admitted  through  window-like  openings  set  in 
every  face  of  every  storey.  With  each  inrush  of  hght,  each  flash 
of  his  torch,  in  deepest  darkness,  those  thronging  figures,  weirdly 
distorted,  sprang  at  him  afresh,  sending  ignominious  trickles 
down  his  spine.  Walls,  window-slabs,  door-beams  —  the  vast 
building  was  encrusted  with  them  from  base  to  summit;  a 
nightmare  of  prancing,  writhing,  gesticulating  unrest;  only  one 
still  face  reappearing  at  intervals  —  the  Great  God  holding  the 
wheel  of  Law  .  .  . 

Never  had  Roy  more  keenly  appreciated  the  company  of 
Terry,  who  —  in  spite  of  a  Celtic  pedigree  —  was  not  enjoying 
this  prolonged  practical  joke. 

It  was  reUef  unspeakable  to  emerge,  at  last,  into  full  light  and 
clean,  sweet  morning  air.  For  the  ninth  storey,  under  the  dome, 
was  arcaded  on  all  four  sides  and  refreshingly  innocent  of  decora- 
tion. Not  a  posturing  figure  to  be  seen.  Nothing  but  restful 
slabs  of  polished  stone.  There  was  meaning  in  this  also  could 
one  catch  the  trend  of  the  builder's  thought. 

On  a  slab  near  an  arcaded  opening,  Roy  sat  gratefully  down; 
while  Terry,  bored  to  extinction  with  the  whole  affair,  curled 
himself  up  in  a  shadowed  comer  and  went  fast  asleep.  "Un- 
friendly little  beast,"  thought  Roy;  and  promptly  forgot  his  ex- 
istence. 

For  below  him,  in  the  silvery  moonlight  of  morning,  lay  Chitor; 
her  shattered  arches  and  battlements,  her  temples  and  palaces 
dwarfed  to  mere  footstools  for  the  gods.  And  beyond,  and 
again  beyond,  lay  the  naked  strength  and  desolation  of  northern 
Rajputana  —  white  with  poppy-fields,  velvet-dark  with  scrub, 
jagged  with  outcrops  of  volcanic  rock;  the  gaunt  warrior  country, 
battered  by  centuries  of  struggle  and  slaughter;  making  calamity 
a  whetstone  for  covu-age;  saying,  in  effect,  to  friend  and  enemy, 
'Take  me  or  leave  me.  You  cannot  change  me.' 

The  Border  had  fasciw^ted  Roy.   The  Himalayas  had  subju- 


i64  FAR  TO  SEEK 

gated  him.  But  this  strong,  unlovely  region  of  rock  and  sand,  of 
horses  and  swords,  of  chivalry  and  reckless  daring,  irresistibly 
laid  siege  to  his  heart;  gave  him  the  authentic  sense  of  being  one 
with  it  all. 

On  a  day  in  that  summer  of  blessed  memory,  his  mother  had 
almost  promised  him  that  once  again  she  would  revisit  India  if 
only  for  the  joy  of  making  a  pilgrimage  with  him  to  Chitor.  And 
here  he  sat  on  the  summit  of  Khumba  Rdna's  Tower  —  alone. 
That  was  the  way  of  Ufe  .  . . 

Gradually  there  stole  over  him  a  great  weariness  of  body  and 
spirit;  pure  reaction  from  the  uplift  of  his  strange  adventure.  His 
lids  drooped  heavily.  In  another  moment  he  would  have  fallen 
sound  asleep;  but  he  saved  himself,  just  in  time.  When  he  craved 
the  thing,  it  eluded  him;  now,  undesired,  it  assailed  him.  But  it 
would  never  do.  He  might  sleep  for  hours.  And  at  the  back  of 
his  mind  lurked  a  clear  conviction  that  he  was  waiting  for  more 
than  the  dawn  .  .  . 

To  shake  off  drowsiness  he  rose,  stretched  himself,  paced  to 
and  fro  several  times  —  and  did  not  sit  down  again.  Folding  his 
arms,  he  leaned  his  shoulders  against  the  stone  embrasure;  and 
stood  so,  a  long  while,  absorbing  —  with  every  faculty  of  flesh 
and  spirit  —  the  stillness,  the  mystery,  the  pearl-grey  light  and 
bottomless  gulfs  of  shadow;  his  mind  emptied  of  articulate 
thought  ...  his  soul  poised  motionless,  as  it  were  a  bird  on 
outspread  wings  .  .  . 

Was  it  fantasy,  this  gradual  intensifying  of  his  uplifted  mood, 
this  breathless  stir  in  the  region  of  his  heart,  till  some  vital  part 
of  him  seemed  gradually  withdrawn  —  up  into  the  vastness  and 
the  silence  .  .  .  ? 

And  suddenly,  acutely,  in  every  nerve,  he  knew  —  he  was 
not  alone:  knew  that,  in  the  seeming  emptiness  of  the  place, 
something,  someone  hovered  near  him.  Amazed,  yet  exultant, 
he  held  his  breath;  and  an  answering  leap  of  the  heart  set  him 
tingling  from  head  to  foot.  It  was  more  than  a  vague  'sense  of 
presence.'  Fused  in  the  central  happiness  that  flooded  him  —  as 
the  moonlight  flooded  the  desert  —  was  an  almost  startling 
awareness;  not  the  mere  emotionial  effect  of  music  or  a  poem;  but 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  165 

sure  knowledge  that  she  was  there  with  him  in  that  upper  room; 
her  disembodied  tenderness  yearning  towards  him  across  a  barrier 
of  empty  space  that  neither  she  nor  he  could  traverse,  for  all 
their  nearness,  for  all  their  longing  .  .  . 

If  Lance  himself  had  come  audibly  up  those  endless  stairs  and 
stood  beside  him,  he  could  not  have  felt  more  certain  of  his  pres- 
ence than  he  felt,  at  this  moment,  of  her  companionship,  her  un- 
spoken assurance  that  he  had  chosen  aright.  He  felt  himself,  if 
possible,  the  less  real  of  the  two. 

For  that  brief  space,  his  world  seemed  empty  of  everything, 
everyone,  but  they  two  —  so  irrevocably  sundered;  so  mysteri- 
ously united. 

Could  he  only  have  sight  of  her  to  complete  the  marvel  of  it! 
But  although  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  spot  whence  the  'feel  of 
her'  seemed  to  come,  not  the  shadow  of  a  shade  could  he  see; 
only  —  was  it  fancy?  —  a  hint  of  brighter  radiance  than  mere 
moonbeams  —  there,  near  the  opposite  archway? 

He  dared  not  move  a  finger  lest  he  break  the  spell.  Yet  he 
could  not  restrain  altogether  the  emotion  that  surged  in  him,  that 
filled  his  ears  with  a  soft  roar  as  of  breaking  waves. 

"God  bless  you,  little  Mother!"  he  murmured  barely  above 
his  breath  —  and  waited;  expecting  he  knew  not  what. 

A  ghost  of  a  breeze  passed  close  to  him;  —  truly  a  ghost,  for 
the  night  was  dead  still.  Almost  he  could  have  sworn  that  if  he 
put  out  a  hand  he  would  have  touched  her.  But  reverence  with- 
held him,  rather  than  fear. 

And  the  next  moment,  the  place  was  empty.  He  was  alone . . , 

He  felt  the  emptiness  as  unmistakeably  as  he  had  felt  her  pres- 
ence. But  the  pang  of  her  going  was  shot  through  with  elation 
that  at  last  his  waking  brain  had  knowledge  of  her  —  a  knowl- 
edge that  no  man  could  wrest  from  him,  even  if  she  never  so 
came  again.  He  had  done  her  bidding.  He  had  kept  his  man- 
hood pure  and  the  windows  of  his  soul  clear  —  and,  behold,  the 
Light  had  shone  through  ... 

Impossible  to  tell  how  long  he  stood  there.  In  those  few  mo- 
ments of  intensified  life,  time  was  not.  The  ordinary  sense  of 


166  FAR  TO  SEEK 

his  surroundings  faded.  The  inner  sense  of  reality  quickened  in 
like  measure;  the  reality  of  her  presence,  all  the  more  felt  be- 
cause it  was  unseen  .  .  . 

When  he  came  clearly  to  himself  again,  the  moon  had  vanished. 
Eastward,  the  sky  was  full  of  primrose  light.  It  deepened  and 
blazed;  till,  all  in  a  moment,  the  sun  leaped  from  the  scabbard  of 
the  hills,  keen  and  radiant  as  a  drawn  sword. 

A  full  minute  Roy  stood  there  —  eyes  and  brain  blinded  with 
brilliance.  Then  he  knelt  down  and  covered  his  face,  and  so 
remained,  a  long  while,  his  whole  being  uplifted  in  a  wordless 
ecstasy  of  thanksgiving. 


Chapter  IV 

The  snow  upon  my  life-bloom  sits 

And  sheds  a  dreary  blight; 
Thy  spirit  o'er  my  spirit  flits 

And  crimson  comes  for  white. 

Anon 

On  an  unclouded  afternoon  of  October,  Roy  sat  alone  with  Thea 
Leigh  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  Residency  garden,  smoking  and 
talking,  feeling  blissfully  at  ease  in  body,  and  very  much  at  home 
in  spirit.  After  the  wrench  of  parting  with  Desmond,  it  was  babn 
to  be  welcomed  by  the  sister  who  shared  his  high  courage  and 
enthusiasm  for  life,  and  who  was  smiling  at  Roy  now  with  the 
same  hazel-grey  eyes  that  both  had  gotten  from  their  father. 
But  Thea's  hair  —  her  crown  of  glory  —  belonged  exclusively  to 
herself.  The  colour  of  it  reminded  him,  with  a  pang,  of  autumn 
beech-leaves,  in  his  own  woods.  It  enhanced  the  vivid  quality 
of  her  beauty  and  added  appreciably  to  his  pleasure  in  watching 
her  while  she  talked. 

Roy  had  arrived  that  morning,  in  the  mist-laden  chill  of  dawn; 
had  enjoyed  a  long  talk  with  Colonel  Leigh;  had  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Vernon  and  Phyllis,  aged  six  and  four;  also  of 
Flossie  Eden,  a  kind  of  adopted  daughter,  aged  twenty;  and, 
tiffin  being  over,  had  announced  his  intention  of  riding  out  to 
re- discover  the  rose-red  wonderland  of  his  childish  dreams  — 
the  peacocks  and  elephants  and  crocodiles  and  temple  bells. 
Thea,  however,  had  counselled  patience,  threatening  him  with 
dire  disillusion,  if  he  went  seeking  his  wonderland  at  that  glar- 
ingly unpoetic  time  of  day. 

"An  early  cup  of  tea,  and  a  ride  afterwards,"  she  prescribed 
in  her  best  autocratic  manner.  "  Only  sunset,  or  the  first  glimmer 
of  dawn  can  throw  a  spell  over  the  municipal  virtues  and  artistic 
backslidings  of  Jaipur!  I  speak  with  feeling;  because  /  rushed 
forth  untimely;  and,  in  the  full  glare  of  afternoon  sunsloine,  your 


168  FAR  TO  SEEK 

rose-red  city  looked  like  nothing  on  earth  but  a  fearful  and  won- 
derful collection  of  pink-and-white  birthday  cakes,  set  out  for  a 
giants'  tea-party!  It  seemed  abnost  a  pity  the  giants  had  never 
come  and  eaten  them  up.  Vinx  said  I  was  ribald.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  was  simply  jealous  of  my  brilliant  metaphor!  Look  at  hun 
now  —  bored  to  death  with  me  —  because  I'm  telling  the  truth!" 

Colonel  Leigh  —  a  tall,  pensive-looking  man,  who  talked  little 
and  listened  assiduously  —  met  her  challenge  with  the  indulgent 
smile  of  a  husband  who  can  be  at  once  amused  and  critical  and 
devoted:  an  excellent  conjunction  in  marriage. 

"If  you  can  stay  Roy's  impatience  with  your  metaphors,  I'll 
begin  to  have  some  respect  for  them! "  said  he. 

And  she  was  staying  Roy's  impatience  now,  with  cigarettes 
and  coffee  and  the  tale  of  Aruna  —  'England-returned.'  She 
had  told  him  next  to  nothing  by  letter;  an  uncharacteristic  touch 
of  caution  derived  from  her  husband,  who  questioned  the  wis- 
don  of  her  bold  incursion  into  the  complexities  and  jarring 
elements  of  a  semi-modern  Hindu  household.  But  Thea  Leigh, 
daughter  of  Honour  Desmond,  was  strongly  imbued  with  the 
responsibility  of  the  ruling  race.  She  stoutly  refused  to  preserve, 
in  Jaipur,  the  correct  official  detachment  of  Anglo-India.  More: 
she  possessed  a  racial  wisdom  of  the  heart,  not  to  be  gainsaid; 
as  who  should  know  better  than  her  husband,  since  it  had  saved 
him  from  himself.  And  now,  having  secured  Roy  for  half  an 
hour,  she  confided',  to  him,  unreservedly,  all  she  could  gather  of 
the  tragic  tangle  she  was  unravelling  in  her  own  effective  fashion. 

"  Aruna's  the  dearest  thing,"  she  told  him  —  as  well  he  knew. 
"And  I'm  truly  fond  of  her.  But  sometimes  I  feel  helpless. 
They're  so  hard  to  come  at  —  these  gentle,  inscrutable  Hindu 
women.  However,  I'm  getting  quite  nimble  at  guessing  and 
inferring;  and  I  gather  that  your  splendid  old  grandfather  is 
rather  pathetically  helpless  with  that  hive  of  hidden  womenfolk 
and  gurus.  Also  that  the  old  lady  —  Mataji  —  is  a  bit  of  a  tar- 
tar. Of  course,  having  lost  caste  makes  the  poor  child's  home 
position  abnost  impossible.  Yet  she  flatly  refuses  to  go  through 
their  horrid  rites  of  restitution.  And  Miss  Hammond  —  our 
lady  doctor  at  the  hospital  —  backs  her  up." 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  169 

"Well  played,  Miss  Hammond!"  quoth  Roy:  and,  remem- 
bering Aruna's  cheerful  letters  (no  word  of  complications),  all 
his  sympathy  went  out  to  her.  Might  not  he  —  related,  yet 
free  of  grandmotheriy  tyranny  —  somehow  be  able  to  help?  Too 
cruel,  that  from  her  happy  time  in  England  there  should  spring 
such  tragic  issues.  And  she  was  not  a  creature  made  for  trag- 
edy, but  for  laughter  and  love  and  'man's  delight.'  Yet,  in  the 
Hhidu  nature  of  things,  this  very  matter  of  marriage  was  the 
crux  of  her  troubles.  To  the  Power  behind  the  curtain  it  spelt 
disgrace  that  the  eldest  granddaughter  —  at  the  ripe  age  of 
twenty-two  —  should  be  neither  wife  nor  mother.  It  would  need 
a  very  advanced  suitor  to  overlook  that  damning  item.  Doubt- 
less a  large  dowry  would  be  demanded  by  way  of  compensation; 
and,  before  all,  caste  must  be  restored.  While  Aruna  remained 
obdurate,  nothing  could  be  definitely  arranged;  and  her  grand- 
father had  not  the  heart  to  enforce  his  wife's  insistent  demands. 
But  if  the  Indian  woman's  horizon  be  limited,  her  shrewdness 
and  intuitive  knowledge  are  often  amazing;  and  this  formidable 
old  lady  —  skilled  in  the  art  of  imposing  her  will  on  others  — 
knew  herself  a  match  for  her  husband's  evasions  and  Aruna's 
flat  rebellion. 

She  reckoned,  however,  without  the  daughter  of  Sir  Theo 
Desmond,  who,  at  this  point,  took  action  —  sudden  and  dis- 
concerting. 

"You  see,  the  child  came  regularly  to  my  purdah  parties," 
she  explained  to  Roy,  who  was  impatient  no  longer,  only  ab- 
sorbed. "  Sometimes  I  had  her  alone  for  reading  and  music;  and 
it  was  heart-breaking  to  see  her  wilting  away  before  my  eyes.  So, 
at  last,  in  desperation,  I  broke  loose  —  as  Vinx  politely  puts  it  — 
and  asked  searching  questions,  regardless  of  etiquette.  After  all, 
the  poor  lamb  has  no  mother.  And  I  never  disobey  an  impulse  of 
the  heart.  I  believe  I  was  only  in  the  nick  of  time.  It  seemed  the 
old  tartar  and  her  widowed  sister-in-law  were  in  touch  with  a 
possible  husband.  So  they  had  given  the  screw  a  fresh  turn,  as- 
sisted by  the  family  guru.  He  had  just  honoured  them  with  a 
special  visit  expecting  to  find  the  lost  sheep  regenerate  and  eager 
for  his  blessing.    Shocked  at  the  tale  of  her  obstinacy,  he  an- 


170  FAR  TO  SEEK 

nounced  that,  unless  he  heard  otherwise  within  a  week,  he  would 
put  a  nameless  curse  upon  her;  in  which  case  her  honourable 
grandmother  would  not  allow  the  poor  child  to  eat  or  sleep  under 
her  honourable  roof." 

Roy's  hand  closed  sharply  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "Con- 
found the  fellow!  It's  chielly  the  mental  eflect  they  rely  on. 
They're  no  fools;  and  even  men  like  Grandfather  —  who  can't 
possibly  believe  such  rot  —  seem  powerless  to  stand  up  against 
them.   Does  Ae  know  all  this?  " 

"It's  hard  to  tell.  They're  so  guarded  —  even  the  most  en- 
lightened —  in  alluding  to  domestic  matters.  Without  a  shade 
of  discourtesy,  they  simply  keep  one  outside.  Poor  Aruna  was 
terrified  at  having  told  me.  Broke  down  utterly.  But  no  idea  of 
giving  in.  It's  astonishing  the  grit  one  comes  upon  under  their 
surface  gentleness.  She  said  she  would  starve  or  drown  rather. 
/  said  she  should  do  notliing  of  the  kind;  that  I  would  speak 
to  Sir  Lakshman  myself  —  oh,  very  diplomatically,  of  course! 
Afterwards,  all  in  a  rush,  came  my  inspiration.  Some  sort  of 
secretarial  work  for  me  would  sound  fairly  plausible.  (Did  you 
know  —  I  'm  making  a  name,  in  a  small  way,  over  my  zeal  for 
Indian  women?)  On  the  strength  of  that,  one  could  suggest  a 
couple  of  rooms  in  the  Residency;  and  she  could  still  keep  on  at 
the  hospital  with  Miss  Hammond,  giving  me  certain  afternoons. 
It  struck  me  as  flawless  —  till  I  imparted  it  to  Vinx  and  saw  hira 
tweak  his  left  eyebrow.  Of  course  he  was  convinced  it  'wouldn't 
do';  Sir  Lakshman — my  position — and  so  on.  I  said  I  proposed 
to  make  it  do  —  and  the  eyebrow  twitched  worse  than  ever.  So 
I  mildly  reminded  him  that  he  had  not  held  Aruna  sobbing  in  his 
arms,  and  he  didn't  happen  to  be  a  mother!  Which  was  unan- 
swerable. —  And,  my  dear  Roy,  I  had  a  hectic  week  of  it,  manip- 
ulating Sir  Lakshman  and  Aruna  and  the  honourable  grand- 
mother—  strictly  unseen!  I'm  sure  she's  anti-English.  I've  got 
at  all  the  other  high-borns;  but  I  can't  get  at  her.  However  — 
with  a  bold  front  and  a  tactful  tongue,  I  carried  the  day.  So  I 
hope  the  holy  man  will  transfer  his  potent  curse  to  me !  Natu- 
rally, the  moment  I'd  fixed  things  up  came  Lance's  letter  about 
you.  But  I  couldn't  back  out.  And  I  suppose  it's  all  right?  " 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  171 

"Well,  of  course."  Roy  was  troubled  with  no  doubts  on  that 
score.  "  What  a  family  you  are!  I  was  hoping  to  pick  up  threads 
with  Aruna." 

"You  shall.  But  you  must  be  discreet.  Jaipur  isn't  exactly 
Oxford!  Brother  and  cousin  are  almost  the  same  word  with 
them;  but  still— " 

"Is  she  at  the  hospital  now?"  Roy  cut  in  irrelevantly.  Her 
insistence  on  discretion  —  with  Aruna,  of  all  people  —  struck 
him  as  needless  fussing  and  unlike  Thea.  And  by  now  he  was 
feeling  more  impatient  to  see  Aruna  than  to  see  Jaipur. 

"No.  But  she  seemed  shy  of  appearing  at  tiffin.  So  I  said  if 
she  came  out  here  afterwards,  she  would  find  you  and  me  alone. 
She's  looked  happier  and  less  fragile  lately.  Even  Vinx  admits 
the  event  has  justified  me.  But  of  course  it's  simply  an  emer- 
gency plan  —  a  transition  — " 

"To  what?''  Roy  challenged  her  with  surprising  emphasis. 

"That's  my  puzzle  of  puzzles.  Perhaps  you  can  help  me  solve 
it.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  she  knows  herself  what  she  wants  out 
of  life  .  .  .  But  perhaps  I  haven't  the  key  to  her  waverings  .  .  ." 

At  that  moment  a  slight,  unmistakeable  figure  stepped  from 
the  shadow  of  the  verandah  down  the  shallow  steps  flanked  with 
pots  of  begonia;  moving  with  the  effortless  grace  that  Roy's 
heart  knew  too  well.  Dress  and  sari  were  carnation  pink.  Her 
golden  shoes  glittered  at  every  step:  and  she  pensively  twirled 
a  square  Japanese  parasol  —  almond-blossoms  and  butterflies 
scattered  abroad  on  silk  of  the  frailest  blue. 

"  Is  their  instinct  for  that  sort  of  thing  unconscious  —  I  won- 
der?" murmured  Thea.  "You  shall  have  half  an  hour  with  her, 
to  pick  up  threads.  Help  me  if  you  can,  Roy.  But  —  be  dis- 
creet!" 

Roy  scarcely  heard  her.  He  had  gone  suddenly  very  still;  his 
gaze  riveted  on  Aruna.  The  Indian  dress,  the  carriage  of  her 
veiled  head,  the  leisured  grace,  so  sharply  smote  him  that  tears 
pricked  his  eyelids  and,  for  one  intoxicating  moment,  he  was 
wafted,  in  spirit,  across  the  chasm  of  the  War  to  that  dear 
dream-world  of  youth,  when  all  distances  were  blue  and  all 
the  near  prospect  bright  with  the  dew  of  the  morning.    Only 


172  FAR  TO  SEEK 

under  a  masklike  stillness  could  he  hide  that  startling  uprush  of 
emotion;  and  had  Broome  been  watching  him,  he  would  have 
seen  the  subtle  film  of  the  East  steal  over  his  face. 

Thea  saw  only  his  sudden  abstraction  and  the  whitened  knuck- 
les of  his  left  hand.  She  also  realised,  with  a  faint  prick  of  anx- 
iety, that  he  had  simply  not  heard  her  remark.  Was  it  possi- 
ble —  could  Roy  be  at  the  back  of  Aruna's  waverings?  Would 
his  coming  mean  fresh  complications?  Too  distracting  —  to  be 
responsible  for  anything  of  that  kind  .  .  . 

Without  a  word,  he  had  risen  —  and  went  quickly  forward  to 
meet  her.  Thea  saw  how,  on  his  approach,  all  her  studied  com- 
posure fell  away;  and  both,  when  they  joined  her,  looked  so 
happy,  yet  so  plainly  discomposed,  that  Thea  felt  ridiculously 
at  a  loss  for  just  the  right  word  with  which  to  effect  a  casual  re- 
treat. Responsibility  for  Sir  Lakslunan's  granddaughter  was  no 
light  matter:  at  least  she  had  done  well  m  warning  Roy.  These 
emerging  Indian  girls  .  .  .  ! 

It  was  a  positive  relief  to  see  the  prosaic  figure  of  Flossie  Eden, 
in  brief  tennis  skirt  and  shady  hat,  hurrying  across  the  lawn, 
with  her  boyish  stride;  racquet  swinging,  her  round  face  flushed 
with  exercise. 

"I  say.  Aunt  Thea  — you're  wanted  jut  put,"  ^  she  announced 
briskly.  "Verney's  in  one  of  his  moods  — and  Mr.  Neill  will 
soon  be  in  one  of  his  tempers,  if  he  isn't  forcibly  removed.  In- 
stead of  helpmg  with  the  balls,  he's  been  parading  up  and  down 
the  verandah,  two  tin  pails,  tied  on  to  him  with  a  string,  clatter- 
ing behind  —  making  a  beast  of  a  row.  Shouting  wasn't  any 
earthly.  I  rushed  in  and  grabbed  him.  'Verney- drop  itl 
What  are  you  doing? '  I  said  sternly;  and  he  looked  up  at  me  like 
a  sainted  cherub:  'Flop,  don't  hinder  me.  I'm  walkin'  froo  the 
valley  of  the  shadow,  an'  goodness  an'  mercy  are  following  me 
all  the  days  of  my  life.'  That's  the  fruits  of  teaching  the  Bible 
to  innocents!" 

Thea's  laugh  ended  m  a  sigh.  "I  warned  Miss  Mills.  But  the 
creature  is  getting  out  of  hand.  I  suppose  it  means  he  ought  to 
go  home.    Mr.  Neill,"  she  explained  to  Roy,  "is  Vinx's  short- 

^  lustautly. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  173 

hand  secretary:  volcanic,  but  indispensable  to  the  Great  Work! 
So  I  must  fly  off  and  obliterate  my  superfluous  son." 

Her  eyes  tried  to  impart  the  warning  he  had  not  heard.  Use- 
less. His  attention  was  centred  on  Anina. 

"Wonderful  —  isn't  she?"  the  girl  murmured,  looking  after 
her.  Then  swiftly,  half  shyly,  she  glanced  up  at  him.  "Still 
more  wonderful  that,  at  last,  you  have  come;  that  I  am  here  too 
—  only  through  her.   She  —  told  you?" 

"Yes.  A  Uttle.  I  want  to  hear  more." 

"Presently.  I  would  rather  push  away  sad  things  —  now  you 
are  here.  If  there  was  only  Dyan  too  —  like  Oxford  days.  And 
oh,  Roy,  I  was  bad  never  writing  . .  .  about  her.  I  did  try.  But 
so  difficult .  .  .  And  —  you  knew  —  ?" 

"Yes  —  I  knew,"  he  said  in  a  repressed  voice.  On  that  sub- 
ject he  could  not  trust  himself  just  yet.  Every  curve  and  fold  of 
her  sari,  and  the  half-seen  coils  of  her  dark  hair,  every  move- 
ment, every  quaint  turn  of  phrase  set  his  nerves  vibrating  with 
an  ecstasy  that  was  pain.  For  the  moment,  he  wanted  simply 
to  be  aware  of  her;  to  hug  the  dear  illusion  that  the  years  be- 
tween were  a  dream.  And  illusion  was  heightened  by  the  trivial 
fact  that  her  appearance  was  identical  in  every  detail.  Was  it 
chance?  Or  had  she  treasured  them  all  this  time?  Only  she 
herself  looked  older.  Though  her  face  kept  its  pansy  aspect, 
her  cheek-bones  were  a  shade  too  prominent;  no  veiled  glow 
of  health  under  her  dusky  skin.  But  her  smile  could  still  atone 
for  all  shortcomings  .  .  . 

"Let's  sit  down,"  he  added  after  a  strained  silence.  "And  tell 
me  —  what's  come  to  Dyan?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Oh  —  ii  we  could  know.  Not  much  use, 
after  all,  trying  to  push  away  sadness! "  She  sank  into  her  chair 
and  looked  up  at  him.  "The  more  you  push  it  away,  the  more  it 
comes  flowing  in  from  everywhere.  Everything  so  broken  and 
confused  from  this  terrible  War.  At  the  begmning  how  they  said 
all  would  be  made  new;  East  and  West  firmly  united!  But  here, 
at  home,  while  the  best  were  fighting,  the  worst  were  too  busy 
with  ugly  whispers  and  untrue  talk.  Even  holy  men,  behind  the 
purdah  . . ." 


174  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"As  bad  as  that,  is  it?"  asked  Roy,  distracted  from  his  own 
sensations  by  the  subject  that  lay  nearest  his  heart.  "And  you 
think  Dyan's  in  with  that  crew?" 

"Yes,  we  are  afraid  ...  A  pity  he  came  back  from  France 
too  soon,  because  half  his  left  arm  must  be  cut  off.  Then  —  you 
heard  —  he  went  to  Calcutta  .  .  .  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  wrote  at  the  time.  He  didn't  answer.  I  haven't  heard 

since." 

She  nodded.  Sudden  tears  filled  her  eyes.  "Always  now  —  no 
answer.  Like  trying  to  speak  with  some  one  dead.  So  Grand- 
father fears  he  was  not  only  studying  art.  You  know  how  he  is 
too  quick  to  catch  fire.  And  too  easily  he  might  believe  those 
men  who  spin  words  like  spiders'  webs.  Also  he  was  very  sore 
losing  his  arm,  by  some  small  stupid  chance;  and  there  was  bit- 
terness for  that  trouble  ...  of  Tara  .  .  ." 

Roy  started.  "Lord !  —  was  it  Tara?"  Instantly  there  flashed 
a  vision  of  the  walled  lane  leading  to  New  College;  Dyan's 
embittered  mood  and  bewildering  change  of  front  .  .  .  Looking 
back  now,  the  thing  seemed  glaringly  obvious;  but,  through  the 
opalescent  mist  of  his  own  dreams,  he  had  seen  Dyan  in  one  re- 
lation only.  Just  as  well,  perhaps.  Even  at  this  distance,  the 
idea  amazed  and  angered  him.  Tara!  The  arrogance  of  it  ...  ! 

"You  didn't  know  —  never  thought?  .  .  .  Poor  Dyan!"  One 
finger-tip  furtively  intercepted  a  tear  that  was  stealing  down 
the  side  of  her  nose.  "I  am  too  silly  just  now,"  she  apologised 
meekly.  "To  me,  he  only  spoke  of  it  long  after,  when  coming 
wounded  from  France.  Then  I  saw  how  the  bitterness  was  still 
there,  changing  the  noble  thoughts  of  his  heart.  That  is  the 
trouble  with  Dyan.  First  —  nothing  good  enough^  for  England. 
But  too  fierce  love  may  bring  too  fierce  hate  —  if  they  poison 
his  mind  with  cunning  words  dressed  up  in  high  talk  of  re- 
ligion— " 

"How  long  since  you  heard?  Have  you  any  address?"  Roy 
dared  not  encourage  her  melting  mood. 

"  Six  months  now,"  she  stoically  blinked  back  her  tears.  "  Not 
any  word.  Not  any  address,  since  he  left  Calcutta.  Last  week 
I  wrote,  addressing  to  the  office  of  a  paper  there,  because  once  he 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  175 

said  that  editor  gave  him  work.  I  told  him  all  the  pain  in  my 
heart.  If  that  letter  finds  him  —  some  answer  must  come." 

"Well,  if  it  does,  I  promise  you  this  much.  I'll  unearth  him  — 
somehow,  wherever  he  is  —  " 

"Oh,  Roy!  I  hoped  —  I  knew  —  I"  She  clasped  her  hands  to 
hide  their  tremor,  and  the  look  in  her  eyes  came  perilously  near 
adoration. 

Roy  had  spoken  with  the  cool  assurance  of  his  father's 
race  and  without  a  glimmering  idea  how  his  rash  promise  was 
going  to  be  fulfilled.  "I'll  do  my  level  utmost,  anyhow,"  he 
added,  more  soberly.  "But  there's  you  —  your  home  compli- 
cations." 

She  turned  her  hands  outward  with  the  expressive  gesture  of 
her  race.  "That  foolish  sadness  we  caw  push  away.  What  mat- 
ter for  anything  —  now?  I  rest  —  I  breathe  —  I  am  here  — ! " 
Her  smile  shone  out,  sudden  and  briUiant.  "Almost  like  Eng- 
land —  this  big  green  garden  and  children  and  sound  of  playing 
tennis.  Let  us  be  young  again.  Let  us,  for  a  small  time,  not  re- 
member that  all  outside  is  Jaipur  and  the  desert  —  dusty  and 
hot  and  cruel;  and  dark  places  full  of  secret  and  terrible  things. 
Here  we  are  safe.  Here  it  is  almost  England!" 

Her  gallant  appeal  so  moved  him,  and  the  lighter  vein  so 
charmingly  became  her,  that  Roy  humoured  her  mood  willingly 
enough.  . . . 

When  his  tea  arrived,  she  played  hostess,  with  an  alluring 
mixture  of  shyness  and  happy  importance,  capping  his  lively 
sallies  with  the  quick  wit  of  old  days.  And  when  Suraj  was  an- 
nounced —  "Oh,  please  —  may  I  see  him?"  she  begged  eagerly 
as  a  child. 

Suraj  graciously  permitted  his  velvet  nose  to  be  stroked  by 
alien  fingers,  light  as  rose  petals.  Then  Roy  sprang  into  the 
saddle;  and  Aruna  stood  watching  him,  as  he  went  —  sais  ^  and 
dog  trotting  to  heel  —  a  graceful,  lonely  figure,  shadowed  by  her 
semi-transparent  parasol. 

At  a  bend  in  the  drive,  where  a  sentry  sprang  to  attention,  he 
turned  for  a  parting  salute.   Her  answering  gesture  might  or 

1  Groom. 


176  FAR  TO  SEEK 

might  not  have  been  intended  for  him.  She  at  least  knew  all  about 
the  need  for  being  discreet.  For,  on  leaving  the  tea-table,  they 
had  passed  from  the  dream  of  'almost  England'  into  the  dusty 
actuality  of  Jaipur. 


Chapter  V 

Broadly  speaking  there  are  two  blocks  of  people  —  East  and  West;  people  ivho 
interfere  and  people  who  don't  interfere;  .  .  .  East  is  a  fatalist.  West  is  an  ideal- 
ist, of  a  clutnsy  sort. 

Stacy  Aumonier 

A  MILE,  or  less,  of  tree-bordered  road  sloped  gently  from  the  Resi- 
dency gate-posts  to  the  walled  City  of  Victory,  backed  by  craggy, 
red-grey  spurs  of  the  Aravalli  range,  hidden  almost  in  feathery 
heads  of  banyan,  acacia,  and  neem:  —  a  dusty,  well-ordered 
oasis,  holding  its  own  against  the  stealthy  oncoming  of  the 
desert. 

North  and  east  ran  the  screen  of  low  hills  with  tlieir  creeping 
lines  of  masonry;  but  from  south  and  west  the  softly  encroaching 
thing  crept  up  to  the  city  walls,  in  through  the  gates,  powdering 
every  twig  and  leaf  and  lattice  with  the  fine  white  dust  of  death. 
Shadeless  and  colourless  to  the  limit  of  vision,  it  rose  and  fell  in 
long  billowing  waves;  as  if  some  wizard,  in  the  morning  of  the 
world,  had  smitten  a  living  ocean  to  lifeless  sand,  where  nothing 
flourished  but  the  camel  thorn  and  the  ak  plant  and  gaunt  cactus 
bushes  —  their  limbs  petrified  in  weird  gesticulation. 

But  on  the  road  itself  was  a  sufficiency  of  life  and  colour:  — 
parrokeets  flashing  from  tree  to  tree,  like  emeralds  made  visible 
and  audible;  village  women  swathed  in  red  and  yellow  veils; 
prancing  Rajput  cavaliers,  straight  from  the  Middle  Ages;  ox- 
carts and  camels  —  unlimited  camels;  a  sluggish  stream  of  life, 
rising  out  of  the  landscape  and  flowing,  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
through  the  seven  Gates  of  Jaipur.  And  there,  on  the  low  spurs, 
beyond  the  walls,  Roy  sighted  the  famous  Tiger  Fort,  and  the 
marble  tomb  of  Jai  Singh  —  he  that  built  the  rose-red  city;  chal- 
lenging the  desert,  as  Canute  the  sea;  saying,  in  terms  of  stone 
and  mortar,  'Here  shall  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed!'  Nearing 
tlie  fortified  gateway,  he  noted  how  every  inch  of  flat  surface 
was  silkily  powdered,  every  opening  silted  with  sand.  Would  it 


178  '  FAR  TO  SEEK 

rest  with  desert  or  city,  he  wondered,  the  ultimate  victory  of  the 
last  word  . . .  ? 

Close  against  the  ramparts  sand  and  dust  were  blown  into 
a  deep  drift;  or  was  it  a  deserted  pile  of  rags  —  ?  Suddenly,  with 
a  sick  sensation,  he  saw  the  rags  heave  and  stir.  Arms  emerged 
—  if  you  could  call  them  arms  —  belonging  to  pinched,  shadowy 
faces.  And  from  that  hvunan  dust-heap  came  a  quavering  wail  — 
"  Maharaj !  Maharaj ! " 

"What  is  it,  Bishun  Singh?"  he  asked  sharply  of  the  sais, 
trotting  at  his  stirrup. 

"Only  the  famine,  Hazur.  Not  a  big  trouble  this  year,  they 
say.  But  from  the  villages  these  come  crawling  to  the  city,  be- 
lieving the  Maharaj  has  plenty,  and  will  give." 

"Does  he  give?" 

Bishun  Singh's  gesture  seemed  to  deprecate  undue  curiosity. 
"The  Maharaj  is  great,  but  the  people  are  like  flies.  If  their 
Karma  is  good,  they  find  a  few  handfuls;  if  evil  —  they  die." 

Roy  said  no  more.  That  simple  statement  was  conclusive  as 
a  dropped  stone.  But,  on  reaching  the  gateway,  he  scattered  a 
handful  of  loose  coins;  and  instantly  a  cry  went  up:  "He  gives 
money  for  food!  Jai  dea  Mahardj!"  Not  merely  arms,  but  en- 
tire skeletons  emerged,  seething,  scrambling,  with  hands  wasted 
to  mere  claws.  A  few  of  the  boldest  caught  at  Roy's  stirrup; 
whereat  Bishun  Singh  brushed  them  off,  as  if  they  were  flies 
indeed. 

Unresisting,  they  tottered  and  fell  one  against  another,  like 
ninepins:  and  Roy,  hating  the  man,  turned  sharply  away.  But 
rebuke  was  futile.  One  could  do  nothing.  It  was  that  which 
galled  him.  One  could  only  pass  on;  mentally  brushing  them 
aside  —  like  Bishun  Singh. 

Spectres  vanished,  however,  once  he  and  Suraj  were  absorbed 
into  the  human  kaleidoscope  of  the  vast  main  street,  paved  with 
wide  strips  of  hewn  stone;  one  half  of  it  sun-flooded;  one  half  in 
shadow.  The  colour  and  movement;  the  vista  of  pink- washed 
houses  speckled  with  white  florets;  the  gay  muslins,  the  small 
turbans  and  inimitable  swagger  of  the  Rajput  —  Sun-descended, 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  ■  179 

reawakened  in  him  those  gleams  of  ancestral  memory  that  had 
so  vividly  beset  him  at  Chitor.  Sights  and  sounds  and  smells  — 
the  pungent  mingling  of  spices  and  dust  and  animals  —  assailed 
his  senses  with  a  vague  yet  poignant  familiarity:  —  fruit  and 
corn  shops  with  their  pyramids  of  yellow  and  red  and  ochre,  and 
the  fat  brown  bunnia  in  the  midst,  shops  bright  with  brass- 
work  and  Jaipur  enamel;  lattice  windows  —  low-broM'ed  arches, 
glimpses  into  shadowed  courts;  flitting  figures  of  veiled  women; 
humbler  women,  unveiled,  winnowing  grain,  or  crowned  with 
baskets  of  sacred  cow-dung,  stepping  like  queens  . . . 

And  the  animals  — !  Extinct,  almost,  in  modern  machine- 
ridden  cities,  here  they  visibly  and  audibly  prevailed.  For  Asia 
lives  intimately  —  if  not  always  mercifully  —  with  her  animals; 
and  Roy's  catholic  affection  embraced  them  all.  Horses  first 
—  a  long  way  first.  But  bullocks  had  their  charm:  the  graceful 
trotting  zebus,  horns  painted  red  and  green.  And  the  ponderous 
swaying  of  elephants,  sensitive  creatures,  nervous  of  their  own 
bulk,  resplendently  caparisoned.  And  there  —  a  flash  of  the 
jungle,  among  casual  goats,  fowls,  and  pariahs  —  went  the 
royal  cheetahs,  led  on  slips;  walking  dehcately,  between  scarlet 
peons,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  amiable  maiden  ladies  with 
blue  hooded  caps  tied  under  their  chins.  In  the  wake  of  their 
magnificence  two  distended  donkeys,  on  parodies  of  legs,  stag- 
gered under  loads  more  distended  still,  plump  dhobies  perched 
callously  on  the  cruppers.  Above  all,  Roy's  eye  delighted  in  the 
jewelled  sheen  of  peacocks,  rivalling  in  sanctity  the  real  lords  of 
Jaipur  —  Shiva's  sacred  bulls  —  which,  milk-white  and  onyx- 
eyed  or  black  and  insolent,  sauntered  among  the  open  shop- 
fronts,  levying  toll  and  obstructing  traflfic  —  assured,  arrogant, 
immune. . . .  And,  at  stated  intervals,  like  wrong  notes  in  a  suc- 
cession of  harmonies,  there  sprang  wrought-iron  gas-lamps,  fitted 
with  electric  bulbs! 

So  riding,  he  came  to  the  heart  of  the  city  —  a  vast  open  space, 
where  the  shops  seemed  brighter,  the  crowds  gayer;  and,  by  con- 
trast, the  human  rag  and  bone  heaps,  beggars  and  cripples,  more 
terrible  to  behold.  And  here  the  first  ray  of  actual  recognition 
flashed  through  the  haze  of  familiar  sensations.  For  here  architec- 


l8o  FAR  TO  SEEK 

tural  exuberance  culminated  in  the  vast  bewildering  facade  of  the 
Hall  of  the  Winds  and  the  Palace  flaunting  its  royal  standard  — 
five  colours  blazoned  on  cloth  of  gold.  But  it  was  not  these  that 
held  Roy's  gaze.  It  was  the  group  of  Brahmin  temples,  elab- 
orately carven,  rose-red  from  plinth  to  summit,  rising  through 
flights  of  crows  and  iridescent  pigeons;  their  monolithic  forms 
clean-cut  against  the  dusty  haze;  their  shallow  steps  flanked  with 
marble  elephants,  splashed  with  orange-yellow  robes  of  holy 
men  and  groups  of  brightly  veiled  women. 

At  sight  of  them  Roy  instinctively  drew  rein;  —  and  there,  in 
the  midst  of  the  shifting,  drifting  crowd,  he  sat  motionless,  letting 
the  vision  sink  deep  into  his  mind,  while  Terry  investigated  a 
promising  smell  and  Bishun  Singh  —  wholly  incurious  —  gos- 
sipped  with  a  potter,  from  whose  wheel  emerged  an  endless  suc- 
cession of  chirdghs  —  primitive  clay  lamps,  with  a  lip  for  the 
cotton  wick.  His  neighbour,  with  equal  zest,  was  creating  very 
ill-shapen  clay  animals,  birds,  and  fishes. 

"Look,  Haziir  —  for  the  Dewali,"  Bishun  Singh  thrust  upon 
Roy's  attention  the  one  matter  of  real  moment,  just  then,  to 
all  right-minded  Hindus.  "Only  two  more  weeks.  So  they  are 
making  lamps,  without  number,  for  houses  and  shops  and  the 
palace  of  the  Maharaja.  Very  big  tamasha,  Hazur."  He  con- 
tinued to  enlarge  volubly  on  the  coming  festival,  to  this  sahib, 
who  took  such  unusual  interest  in  the  ways  of  India;  while  Roy 
sat  silent,  watching,  remembering  .  .  . 

Nearly  nineteen  years  ago  he  had  seen  the  Dewali  —  Feast  of 
Lights;  had  been  driven,  sitting  on  his  mother's  knee,  through  a 
fairy  city  outlined  in  tremulous  points  of  flame,  down  to  the 
shore  of  the  Man  Sagar  Lake,  where  the  lights  quavered  and  ran 
together  and  the  dead  rmns  came  alive  with  them.  AH  night  they 
had  seemed  to  flicker  in  his  fanciful  brain;  and  next  morning  — 
unable  to  think  or  talk  of  anything  else  —  he  had  been  moved  to 
dictate  his  very  first  attempt  at  a  poem.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  sharply,  there  rose  above  the  chatter  of  the  crowd 
and  the  tireless  clamour  of  crows  a  scream  of  mingled  rage  and 
anguish  that  tore  at  his  nerves  and  sent  a  chill  down  his  spine. 

Swinging  round  in  the  saddle,  he  saw  a  spectral  figure  of  a 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  i8i 

woman  —  detached  from  a  group  of  spectres,  huddled  ironically 
against  bulging  sacks  of  grain.  One  shrivelled  arm  was  lifted  in 
denunciation;  the  other  pressed  a  shapeless  bundle  to  her  empty 
breasts.  Obviously  little  more  than  a  girl  —  yet  with  no  trace  of 
youth  in  her  ravaged  face  —  she  stood  erect,  every  bone  visible, 
before  the  stall  of  a  bangle-seller,  fat  and  well-liking,  exuding 
rolls  of  flesh  above  his  doti,  and  enjoying  his  savoury  chupattis 
hot  and  hot;  entirely  impervious  to  unseemly  ravings;  entirely 
occupied  in  pursuing  trickles  of  ghi  ^  with  his  agile  tongue  that 
none  might  be  lost. 

"That  shameless  one  was  begging  a  morsel  of  food,"  the  toy- 
maker  explained  conversationally.  "Doubtless  her  stomach  is 
empty.  Wah!  Wah!  But  she  has  no  pice.  And  a  man's  food 
is  his  own  .  .  ." 

As  he  spoke  a  milk-white  bull  ambled  by,  blundering  and 
plundering  at  will;  his  privileged  nose  adventuring  near  and 
nearer  to  the  savoury  smell.  Promptly,  with  reverential  eager- 
ness, the  man  proffered  half  a  fresh  chupatti  to  the  sacred  in- 
truder; and,  at  that,  the  starving  girl-mother  lunged  forward 
with  the  yell  of  a  hunted  beast;  lunged  right  across  the  path  of  a 
dapper  young  man  in  an  EngUsh  suit,  green  turban,  and  patent- 
leather  shoes. 

"Peace,  she-devil!  Make  way!"  he  cried:  and  catching  her 
wrist  —  that  looked  as  if  it  would  snap  at  a  touch  —  he  flung 
her  aside  so  roughly  that  she  staggered  and  fell  —  the  child  be- 
neath her  emitting  a  feeble  wail . . . 

Since  the  days  of  his  imprisonment,  cruelty  witnessed  had  a 
startling  effect  on  Roy.  Between  the  moment  when  he  sprang 
from  the  saddle,  in  a  blaze  of  fury,  to  the  moment  when  he  stood 
confronting  the  suave.  Anglicised  Indian  —  riding-crop  in  one 
hand,  the  other  supporting  the  girl  and  her  babe  —  his  mind  was 
a  blank.  The  thing  was  done  almost  before  the  impulse  reached 
his  brain.  He  wondered  if  he  had  struck  the  fellow,  whom  he  was 
now  arraigning  furiously,  in  fluent  Hindustani,  and  whose  sullen, 
shifty  face  was  reminding  him  of  someone  —  somewhere  .  .  . 

"Have  you  no  respect  for  suffering  —  or  for  women  other  than 
»  Melted  butter. 


i82  FAR  TO  SEEK 

your  own?"  he  demanded,  scorn  undisguised  in  his  look  and 
tone. 

The  man's  answering  shrug  was  frankly  contemptuous.  "All 
you  English  are  mad,"  he  said  in  the  vernacular.  "If  she  die  not 
to-day,  she  will  die  to-morrow.  And  aheady  there  are  too  many 
to  feed—" 

"She  will  not  die  to-day  or  to-morrow,"  Roy  retorted  with 
Olympian  assurance.  "Courage,  httle  mother"  —  he  addressed 
the  girl  —  "you  shall  have  food,  you  and  the  sonling." 

As  she  raised  herself,  clutching  at  his  arm,  he  became  uncom- 
fortably aware  that  her  rags  of  clothing  were  probably  vermin- 
ous ;  that  his  chivalrous  pity  was  tinged  with  repulsion.  But  pity 
prevailed.  Supporting  her  to  a  neighbouring  stall,  he  bouglit 
fruit,  which  she  devoured  like  a  wild  thing.  He  begged  a  little 
milk  in  a  lotah  and  gave  her  money  for  more.  Hah  dazed,  she 
dropped  the  money,  emptied  the  small  jar  almost  at  a  gulp,  and 
flung  herself  at  his  feet,  pressing  her  forehead  on  his  dusty  boot; 
covering  him  with  confusion.  Imperatively  he  bade  her  get  up. 
No  result.  So  he  stooped  to  enforce  his  command  . . .  She  had 
fainted. 

"Help,  mother,  quick!"  he  appealed  to  an  elder  woman, 
swathed  in  yellow  muslin,  who  hovered  near  the  stall,  and  re- 
sponded, instinctively,  to  the  note  of  command. 

As  she  stooped  over  the  girl,  he  said  in  low,  rapid  tones:  "Lis- 
ten !  It  is  an  order.  Give  warm  food  to  her  and  the  child.  Take 
her  to  the  Burra  Sahib's  compound.  There  she  will  be  cared  for. 
I  will  give  word." 

He  slipped  two  rupees  into  her  hand,  adding:  "Two  more  — 
when  all  is  done  according  to  order." 

"Hai!  Hai!  The  sahib  is  a  Son  of  Princes,"  murmured  she 
of  the  yellow  robe,  reflecting  shrewdly  that  eight  annas  would 
suffice  to  feed  those  poor  empty  ones;  and  gathering  up  her  light 
burden  she  bore  it  away  —  to  Roy's  unfeigned  reUef. 

Would  Thea  scold  him  —  or  uphold  him,  he  wondered  — 
having  committed  himself.  The  whole  thing  had  been  so  swift,  so 
unreal,  that  he  seemed  half  a  world  away  from  the  green  Resi- 
dency garden,  with  its  atmosphere  of  twentieth-century  Eng- 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  183 

land,  scrupulously,  yet  unconsciously,  preserved  in  a  setting  of 
sixteenth-century  India.  And  Roy  —  as  his  father  once  said  — 
had  a  strain  of  both  in  his  composition. 

Across  the  road  Bishun  Singh  —  tolerant  of  his  sahib's  vagaries 
—  was  still  chatting  with  the  potter;  a  blare  of  discord  in  a  mi- 
nor key  announced  an  approaching  procession;  and  there,  in  talk 
with  the  bangle-seller,  stood  the  cause  of  these  strange  doings; 
keeping  a  curious  eye  on  the  mad  Englisliman,  but  otherwise 
frankly  unconcerned.  Again  there  dawned  on  Roy  the  convic- 
tion that  he  had  seen  that  face  before.  It  was  not  in  India.  It 
was  linked  with  the  same  sensations,  in  a  milder  form.  It  would 
come  in  a  moment .  .  . 

It  came. 

Behind  the  slight,  foppish  figure  the  eye  of  his  mind  saw 
suddenly  —  not  the  sunlight  and  colour  of  Jaipur,  but  a  stretch 
of  grey-green  sea,  tawny  cliffs,  and  sandy  shore  ...  St.  Rupert'sl 
Of  course  —  unmistakeable:  the  sullen  mouth,  the  shifty  eyes  .  .  . 

Instantly  he  went  forward  and  said  in  English:  "I  say  —  ex- 
cuse me  —  but  is  your  name  Chandranath?  " 

The  man  started  and  stiffened.  "That  is  no  matter  to  you." 

"Perhaps  not.  Only  you're  very  like  a  boy,  who  was  one  term 
at  St.  Rupert's  School  with  me  — " 

"Well,  I  was  at  St.  Rupert's.  A  beastly  hole—"  He,  too, 
spoke  English,  and  scanned  Roy's  face  with  narrowed  eyes. 
"Sinclair  —  is  it?  You  tumbled  down  the  cliff  on  to  me  —  and 
that  Desmond  fellow  —  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  did.  Lucky  for  you,"  Roy  answered,  stiffening  in  his 
turn.  But  because  of  old  days  —  because  this  unpromising  speci- 
men of  manhood  had  incidentally  brought  him  and  Desmond  to- 
gether, he  held  out  his  hand.  "  'Fraid  I  lost  my  temper,"  he  said 
casually,  for  form's  sake.  "But  you  put  my  blood  up." 

Chandranath's  fingers  lay  limply  in  his  grasp. 

"Still  so  sensitive  —  ?  Then  better  to  clear  out  of  India.  I 
only  pushed  that  crazy  girl  aside.  Englishmen  knock  and  kick 
our  people  without  slightest  compunction.  Perhaps  you  are  a 
tourist  —  or  new  to  this  country?" 

Words  and  manner  set  Roy's  nerves  on  edge;  but  he  had  been 


i84  FAR  TO  SEEK 

imprudent  enough  for  one  day.  "I've  spent  seven  months  on  the 
frontier  in  a  cavalry  regiment,"  he  said.  "But  I  only  came  to 
Jaipur  yesterday." 

"Well,  take  my  advice,  Mr.  Sinclair,  and  leave  these  people 
alone.  They  don't  want  Englishmen  making  pretence  of  senti- 
mental fuss  over  them.  They  like  much  better  to  be  pushed  —  or 
even  starved  —  by  their  own  jdt.  You  may  not  believe  it.  But  I 
belong  to  them.  So  I  know." 

Roy,  who  also  'belonged,'  in  a  measure,  very  nearly  said  so. 
But  again  prudence  prevailed.  "I'm  rash  enough  to  disagree 
with  you,"  he  said  placably.  "The  question  of  non-interference, 
of  letting  ill  alone  —  because  one's  afraid  or  can't  be  bothered 
—  isn't  merely  a  race  question;  it's  a  root  question  of  human 
character.  —  Some  men  can't  pass  by  on  the  other  side.  Right 
or  wrong,  it  simply  isn't  arguable.  It's  a  matter  of  the  individual 
conscience  —  the  heart." 

"Conscience  and  heart  —  if  not  drastically  disciplined  by  the 
logically  reasoning  brain  —  propagate  the  majority  of  troubles 
that  afflict  mankind,"  quoth  Chandranath  in  the  manner  of 
one  familiar  with  platform  oratory.  "Are  you  stopping  in 
Jaipur?" 

"Yes.  At  the  Residency.  Mrs.  Leigh  is  Desmond's  sister. 
Did  you  know?" 

"That  is  curious.  I  did  not  know.  Too  much  heart  and  con- 
science there  also.  Mrs.  Leigh  is  thrusting  her  lingers  into  com- 
plicated issues  of  which  she  is  lamentably  ignorant." 

Roy,  taken  aback,  nearly  gave  himself  away  —  but  not  quite. 
"I  gather  she  acted  with  Sir  Lakshman  Singh's  approval,"  was 
all  he  said. 

Chandranath  shrugged.  "  Sir  Lakshman  is  an  able  but  deluded 
man.  His  dreams  of  social  reform  are  obsolete.  We  of  the  new 
school  adhere  patriotically  to  social  and  religious  ordinances  of 
the  Mother.  All  we  agitate  for  is  political  independence."  He 
unfurled  the  polysyllables,  like  a  flag;  sublimely  unaware  of  hav- 
ing stated  a  contradiction  in  terms.  "But  your  Sir  Lakshman  is 
of  the  old-fashioned  school  —  English-mad." 

"And  your  particular  friends  —  are  sane  —  eh?" 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  185 

The  apostle  of  Hindu  revival  pensively  twirled  an  English  but- 
ton of  his  creditably  cut  English  coat. 

"Yes.  We  are  sane  —  thanks  to  more  liberalising  influences. 
Coloured  dust  cannot  be  thrown  in  our  eyes,  by  bureaucratic 
conjuring  tricks,  or  imperialistic  talk  about  prestige.  To-day  it 
is  India's  turn  for  prestige.  'Aryafor  the  Aryans'  is  the  slogan 
of  the  rising  generation."  He  paused,  blinked,  and  added  with 
an  ingratiating  chuckle:  "You  will  go  running  away  with  an 
impression  that  I  am  metamorphosed  into  red-hot  revolutionary. 
No,  thank  you!  I  am  intrinsically  a  man  of  peace!"  With  a 
flourish  he  jerked  out  a  showy  gold  watch.  "Ah  —  getting  late! 
Very  agreeable  exchanging  amenities  with  old  schoolfellows.  But 
I  have  an  appointment  in  the  Palace  Gardens,  at  the  time  they 
feed  the  muggers.^  That  is  a  sight  you  should  see,  Mr.  Sinclair 
—  when  the  beasts  are  hungry  and  have  not  lately  snapped  up 
a  washerwoman  or  an  erring  wife!" 

"I'd  rather  be  excused  this  evening,  thanks,"  Roy  answered, 
with  a  touch  of  brusqueness.  "I  confess  it  wouldn't  appeal  to  my 
sense  of  humour  —  seeing  crocodiles  gorge,  while  women  and 
children  starve." 

"That  is  what  they  call,  in  a  book  I  once  read,  'little  ironies  of 
life.'  Good  fortune,  at  least,  for  the  muggers.  Better  start  to 
sharpen  your  sense  of  humour,  my  friend.  It  is  incomparable 
asset  against  the  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  contingencies." 
This  time  his  chuckle  had  an  undertone  of  malice;  and  Roy, 
considering  him  thoughtfully  —  from  green  turban  to  patent- 
leather  shoes  —  felt  an  acute  desire  to  take  him  by  the  scruff 
of  his  English  coat  and  dust  the  Jaipur  market-place  with  the 
remnant  of  him. 

Aloud  he  said  coolly:  "Thanks  for  the  hint.  Are  you  stopping 
here  long?" 

"Oh,  I  am  meteoric  visitant.  Never  very  long  anywhere.  I 
come  and  go." 

"  Business  —  eh?  " 

"Yes  —  many  kinds  of  business  —  for  the  Mother."  He 
flashed  a  direct  look  at  Roy;  the  first  since  thek  encounter;  flut- 

^  Crocodiles. 


i86  ■  FAR  TO  SEEK 

tered  a  foppish  hand  —  the  little  finger  lifted  to  display  a  square 
uncut  emerald  —  and  went  his  way  .  .  . 

Roy,  left  standing  alone  in  the  leisurely  crowd  of  men  and  ani- 
mals —  at  once  so  alien  and  so  familiar  —  returned  to  Bishun 
Singh  and  Suraj  in  a  vaguely  troubled  frame  of  mind. 

"Which  way  to  the  house  of  Sir  Lakshman  Singh?"  he  asked 
the  maker  of  chirdghs,  his  foot  in  the  stirrup. 

Enlightened,  he  set  off  at  a  trot,  down  another  vast  street,  all 
hazy  in  the  level  hght  that  conjured  the  dusty  air  to  gold.  But 
contact  with  human  anguish,  naked  and  unashamed  —  as  he  had 
not  seen  it  since  the  War  —  and  that  sudden  queer  encounter 
with  Chandranath  had  rubbed  the  bloom  off  delicate  films  of 
memory  and  artistic  impressions.  These  were  the  drop  scene, 
merely:  negligible  when  Life  took  the  stage.  He  had  an  exciting 
sense  of  having  stepped  straight  into  a  crisis.  Things  were  going 
to  happen  in  Jaipur. 


Chapter  VI 

God  has  a  few  of  us,  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome  . . . 

R.  Browning 
'  Living  still,  and  the  more  beautiful  for  our  longing. 

Virgil 

The  house  of  Sir  Lakshman  Singh,  C.S.I.  —  like  many  others  in 
*  advancing'  India  —  was  a  house  divided  against  itself.  And  the 
cleavage  cut  deep.  The  furnishing  of  the  two  rooms  in  which  he 
mainly  lived  was  not  more  sharply  sundered  from  that  of  the 
Inside  than  was  the  atmosphere  of  his  large  and  vigorous  mind 
from  the  twilight  of  ignorance  and  superstition  that  shrouded 
the  mind  and  soul  of  his  wife.  More  than  fifty  years  ago  — 
when  young  India  ardently  admired  the  West  and  all  its  works 
—  he  had  dreamed  of  educating  his  spirited  girl-bride,  so  that 
the  way  of  companionship  might  beautify  the  way  of  marriage. 

But  too  soon  the  spirited  girl  had  hardened  into  the  narrow, 
tyrannical  woman,  her  conception  of  the  wifely  state  limited  to 
the  traditional  duties  of  motherhood  and  household  service. 
Happily  for  Sir  Lakshman,  his  unusual  gifts  had  gained  him  wide 
recognition  and  high  service  in  the  State.  He  had  schooled  him- 
self, long  since,  to  forget  his  early  dreams:  and  if  marriage  had 
failed,  fatherhood  had  made  royal  amends.  Above  all,  in  Lili- 
mani,  daughter  of  flesh  and  spirit,  he  had  found  —  had  in  a  meas- 
ure created  —  the  intimate  companionship  he  craved;  a  woman 
skilled  in  the  fine  art  of  loving  —  finest  and  least  studied  of  all 
the  arts  that  enrich  and  beautify  human  life.  But  the  gods,  it 
seemed,  were  jealous  of  a  relation  too  nearly  perfect  for  mortal 
man.  So  Rama,  eldest  son,  and  Lildmani,  beloved  daughter,  had 
been  taken,  while  the  estranged  wife  was  left.  Remained  the 
grandchildren,  in  whom  centred  all  his  hope  and  pride.  So  far  as 
the  dividing  miles  and  years  would  permit,  he  had  managed  to 
keep  in  close  touch  with  Roy.  But  the  fact  remained  that  Eng- 


i88  FAR  TO  SEEK 

land  had  first  claim  on  Lilamani's  children;  and  Rdma's  were 
tossed  on  the  troubled  waters  of  transition. 

As  for  India  herself  —  sacred  Motherland  —  her  distraught 
soul  seemed  more  and  more  at  the  mercy  of  the  voluble,  the  half- 
baked,  the  disruptive,  at  home  and  abroad. 

Himself  steeped  in  the  threefold  culture  of  his  country  — 
Vedantic,  Islamic,  and  European  —  he  came  very  near  the  pre- 
vailing ideal  of  composite  Indian  nationality.  Yet  was  he  not 
deceived.  In  seventy  years  of  life  he  had  seen  intellectual  India 
pass  through  many  phases,  from  ardent  admiration  of  the  West 
and  all  its  works  to  no  less  ardent  denunciation.  And  in  these 
days  he  saw  too  clearly  how  those  same  intellectuals  —  with 
catchwords  meaningless  to  nine  tenths  of  her  people  —  were 
breaking  down,  stone  by  stone,  the  mighty  safeguard  of  British 
administration.  Useless  to  protest.  Having  ears  they  heard  not. 
Having  eyes  they  saw  not.  The  spirit  of  destruction  seemed 
abroad  in  all  the  earth.  After  Germany  —  Russia.  Would  it  be 
India  next?  He  knew  her  peoples  well  enough  to  fear.  He  also 
knew  them  well  enough  to  hope.  But  of  late,  increasingly,  fear 
had  prevailed.  His  shrewd  eye  discerned,  in  every  direction, 
fresh  portents  of  disaster  —  a  weakened  executive,  divided 
counsels,  and  violence  that  is  the  offspring  of  both.  His  own 
Maharaja,  he  thanked  God,  was  of  the  old  school,  loyal  and 
conservative;  his  face  set  like  a  flint  against  the  sedition-monger 
in  print  or  person.  And,  as  concessions  multipUed  and  ex- 
tremists waxed  bolder,  so  the  need  for  vigilance  waxed  in  pro- 
portion . . . 

But  to-day  his  mind  had  room  for  one  thought  only  —  the 
advent  of  Roy;  legacy  of  her,  his  vanished  Jewel  of  Delight. 

A  message  from  the  Residency  had  told  of  the  boy's  arrival,  of 
his  hope  to  announce  himself  in  person  that  evening;  and  now,  in 
the  comer  of  a  low  divan,  the  old  man  sat  awaiting  him  with  a 
keener,  more  profound  emotion  at  his  heart  than  the  mere  impa- 
tience of  youth.  But  the  impassive  face  under  the  flesh-pink 
turban  betrayed  no  sign  of  disturbance  within.  The  strongly 
marked  nose  and  eye-bones  might  have  been 'carved  in  old  ivory. 
The  snowy  beard,  parted  in  the  middle,  was  swept  up  over  his 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  189 

cars;  and  the  eyes  were  veiled.  An  open  book  lay  on  his  knee. 
But  he  was  not  reading.  He  was  listening  for  the  sound  of 
hoofs,  the  sound  of  a  voice  .  . . 

The  two  had  not  met  for  five  years:  and  in  those  years  the  boy 
had  proved  the  warrior  blood  in  his  veins;  had  passed  through 
the  searching  test  of  a  bitter  loss.  Together,  they  could  speak  of 
her  —  gone  from  them;  yet  alive  in  their  hearts  for  evermore. 
Seen  or  unseen,  she  was  the  link  that  kept  them  all  united,  the 
pivot  on  which  their  lives  still  turned.  There  had  been  none  with 
whom  he  could  talk  of  her  since  she  went .  . . 

Over  his  writing-table  hung  the  original  Antibes  portrait  — 
life-size;  Nevil's  pa3nment  for  the  high  privilege  of  painting  her; 
a  privilege  how  reluctantly  accorded  none  but  himself  had  ever 
known.  And  behold  his  reward:  her  ever-visible  presence  —  the 
girl-child  who  had  been  altogether  his  own. 

Hoofs  at  last  —  and  the  remembered  voice;  deeper,  more  com- 
manding; the  embroidered  curtain  pushed  aside.  Then  —  Roy 
himself,  broader,  browner;  his  father's  smile  in  his  eyes;  and, 
permeating  all,  the  spirit  of  his  mother,  clearly  discernible  to  the 
man  who  had  given  it  life. 

He  was  on  his  feet  now,  an  imposing  figure,  in  loose  white  rai- 
ment and  purple  choga.  In  India,  he  wisely  discarded  English 
dress,  deeming  it  as  unsuitable  to  the  country  as  English  poUti- 
cal  machinery.  Silent,  he  held  out  his  arms  and  folded  Roy  in 
a  dose  embrace:  then  —  still  silent  —  stood  away  and  consid- 
ered him  afresh.  Their  mutual  emotion  affected  them  sensibly, 
like  the  presence  of  a  third  person,  making  them  shy  of  each 
other,  shy  of  themselves. 

It  was  Sir  Lakshman  who  spoke  first.  "  Roy,  son  of  my  Heart's 
Delight,  I  have  waited  many  years  for  this  day.  It  was  the  hid- 
den wish  of  her  heart.  And  her  spirit,  though  withdrawn,  still 
works  in  our  lives.  It  is  only  so  with  those  who  love  greatly, 
without  base  mixture  of  jealousy  or  greed.  They  pass  on  —  yet 
they  remain;  untouched  by  death,  Uke  the  lotus,  that  blooms  in 
the  water,  but  opens  beyond  its  reach." 

Words  and  tone  so  stirred  Roy  that  tears  filled  his  eyes.  And 
suddenly,  through  the  mist  of  his  grief,  dawned  a  vision  of  his 


I90  FAR  TO  SEEK 

mother's  face.  Blurred  and  tremulous,  it  hovered  before  him  with 
a  startling  illusion  of  life:  then  —  he  knew  .  .  . 

Without  a  word,  he  went  over  to  the  picture  and  stood  before 
it,  drowned  fathoms  deep  .  .  . 

A  shght  movement  behind  roused  him;  and  with  an  effort  he 
turned  away.  "I've  not  seen' a  big  one  since  —  since  my  last 
time  at  Home,"  he  said  simply.  "I've  only  two  small  ones  out 
here." 

The  carven  face  was  not  impassive  now.  "After  all,  Dilkusha, 
what  matter  pictures,  when  you  have  —  herself?" 

Roy  started.  "It's  true.  I  have  —  herself.  How  could  you 
know?  " 

Five  minutes  later,  he  was  sitting  beside  his  grandfather,  on 
the  deep  divan,  telling  him  all .  .  . 

Before  setting  out,  he  would  not  have  believed  it  possible.  But 
instinctively  he  knew  himself  in  touch  with  a  quality  of  love  that 
matched  his  own;  and  the  mere  telling  revived  the  marvel,  the 
thrill  of  that  strange  and  beautiful  experience  at  Chitor  .  .  . 

Sir  Lakshman  had  neither  moved  nor  spoken  throughout. 
Now  their  eyes  met  in  a  look  of  deep  understanding. 

"I  am  very  proud  you  told  me,  Roy.  It  is  not  easy." 

"No.  I've  not  told  anyone  else.  I  couldn't.  But  just  now  — 
something  seemed  to  draw  it  all  out  of  me.  I  suppose  —  some- 
thing in  you  — " 

"Or  perhaps  —  herself?  It  almost  seemed  —  she  was  here 
with  us,  while  you  talked." 

"  Perhaps  —  she  is  here  still." 

Their  voices  were  lowered,  as  in  the  presence  of  sacred  things. 
Never,  till  now,  had  Roy  so  keenly  felt  his  individual  link  with 
this  wonderful  old  man,  whose  blood  ran  in  his  veins. 

"Grandfather,"  he  asked  after  a  pause,  "I  suppose  it  doesn't 
often  happen  —  that  sort  of  thing?  I  suppose  most  common- 
sense  people  would  dismiss  it  all  as  —  sheer  delusion?  " 

The  young  simplicity  of  the  question  lit  a  smile  in  Sir  Laksh- 
man's  eyes. 

"Quite  possible.  All  that  is  most  beautiful  in  life,  most  real  to 
saints  and  lovers,  must  seem  delusion  to  those  whose  hearts  and 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  191 

spirits  are  merely  vassals  to  the  body  and  the  brain.  But  those 
who  say  of  the  soul,  *It  is  not,'  have  still  to  prove  it  is  not  to  those 
who  have  felt  and  known.  Also  I  grant  —  the  other  way  about. 
But  they  speak  in  different  languages.  Kabir  says,  *I  disclose  my 
soul  in  what  is  hidden.'  And  again,  'The  bird  is  beyond  seeking, 
yet  it  is  most  clearly  visible.'  For  us,  that  is  living  truth.  For 
those  others,  a  mere  tangle  of  words." 

"I  see."  Roy's  gaze  was  riveted  on  the  picture  above  the 
writing-table.  "You  can't  explain  colours  to  the  colour-blind. 
And  I  suppose  experiences  like  mine  only  come  to  those  for 
whom  words  like  that  are  —  living  truth?  " 

"Yes  —  like  yours.  But  there  are  other  kinds;  not  always 
true.  Because,  in  this  so  sacred  matter  clever  people,  without 
scruple,  have  made  capital  out  of  the  heart's  natural  longing; 
and  the  dividing  line  is  dim  where  falsehood  ends  and  truth  be- 
gins. So  it  has  all  come  into  suspicion  and  contempt.  Accept 
what  is  freely  given,  Roy.  Do  not  be  tempted  to  try  and  snatch 
more." 

"No  —  no.  I  wouldn't  if  I  could."  A  pause.  "  You  believe  it 
is  true  . . .  what  I  feel?  That  she  is  often  —  very  near  me?  " 

Sir  Lakshman  gravely  inclined  his  head.  "As  I  believe  in 
Brahma,  Lord  of  all." 

And  for  both  the  silence  that  fell  seemed  pulsating  with  her 
unseen  presence  . . . 

When  they  spoke  again  it  was  of  mundane  things.  Roy  vividly 
described  his  sensations,  riding  through  the  city;  the  culminat- 
ing incident,  and  his  recognition  of  the  offender. 

"The  queerest  thing,  running  into  the  beggar  again  like  that! 
He  looks  as  sulky  and  shifty  as  ever.  That's  how  I  knew." 

"Sulky  and  shifty  — and  wearing  English  clothes?"  Sir 
Lakshman's  brows  contracted  sharply,  "^^t  name  did  you 
say?" 

"  Chandranath,  we  called  him." 

"And  you  don't  know  his  whereabouts?" 

"No,  I'm  sorry.  I  didn't  suppose  his  whereabouts  mattered 
a  damn  to  anyone." 

The  stem  old  Rajput  smiled.  It  did  his  heart  good  to  hear  the 


192  FAR  TO  SEEK 

familiar  slang  phrases  again.  "Whether  it  matters  a  damn  —  as 
you  say  —  depends  on  whether  he  is  the  undesirable  I  have  in 
mind.  Quite  young;  but  much  influence,  and  a  bad  record. 
Mixed  up  with  German  agents,  before  the  War,  and  the  Ghadr 
party  in  California;  arrested  for  seditious  activity  and  deported: 
but  of  course,  on  appeal,  allowed  to  return.  Always  the  same 
tale.  Always  the  same  result.  Worse  mischief  done.  And  India 
—  the  true  India  —  must  be  grateful  for  these  mercies!  Some- 
times I  think  the  irony  is  too  sharp  between  the  true  gifts  given, 
unnoticed,  by  Englishmen  working  sincerely  for  the  good  of  our 
people;  and  the  false  gifts  proclaimed  from  the  house-tops,  filUng 
loyal  Indians  with  bewilderment  and  fear.  I  have  had  letters 
from  scores  of  these,  because  I  am  known  to  beUeve  that  loyal 
allegiance  to  British  Government  gives  India  the  best  chance  for 
peaceful  progress  she  is  likely  to  have  for  many  generations. 
And  from  everyone  comes  the  same  cry,  begging  to  be  saved  from 
this  crazy  nightmare  of  Home  Rule,  not  understood  and  not  de- 
sired except  by  those  who  invented  it.  But  what  appeal  is  possi- 
ble to  those  who  stop  their  ears?  And  all  the  time,  by  stealthy 
and  open  means,  the  poison  of  race-hatred  is  being  poured  into 
India's  veins — " 

"But,  Grandfather  —  what  about  the  War  —  and  pulling 
together  —  and  all  that?  " 

Sir  Lakshman's  smile  struck  Roy  as  one  of  the  saddest  he  had 
ever  seen.  "Four  years  ago,  my  dear  boy,  we  all  had  many 
radiant  illusions.  But  this  War  has  dragged  on  too  long.  It  is 
too  far  away.  For  our  Princes  and  warlike  races  it  has  had  some 
reality.  For  the  rest  it  means  mostly  news  in  the  papers  and 
rumours  in  bazaars,  high  prices  and  trouble  about  food.  No 
better  soil  for  sowing  evil  seeds.  And  friends  of  Germany  are 
still  working  in  India  —  remember  that!  While  the  loyal  were 
fighting,  these  were  talking,  plotting,  hindering:  and  now  they 
are  waving,  like  a  flag,  the  services  of  others,  to  gain  their  own 
ends,  from  which  the  loyal  pray  to  be  delivered !  Could  irony  be 
more  complete?  Indian  Princes  can  keep  some  check  on  these 
gentlemen.  But  it  is  not  always  easy.  If  this  Chandranath 
should  be  the  same  man  —  he  is  here,  no  doubt,  for  Dewali.  At 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  193 

sacred  feasts  they  do  most  of  their  devil's  work.  Did  you  speak 
of  connection  with  me?  " 

"No.  But  he  seemed  to  know  about  Aruna:  said  you  were 
English-mad." 

Sir  Lakshman  frowned.  "English-mad!  That  is  their  jargon. 
Too  narrow  to  understand  how  I  can  deeply  love  both  countries, 
while  remaining  as  jealous  for  all  true  rights  of  my  Motherland 
as  any  hothead  who  swallows  their  fairy-tales  of  a  Golden  Age, 
and  England  as  Raksha  —  destroying  demon!  By  help  of  such 
inventions,  they  have /deluded  many  fine  young  men,  like  my 
poor  Dyan,  who  should  be  already  married  and  working  to  fill  my 
place.  Such  was  my  hope  in  sending  him  to  Oxford.  And  now  — 
see  the  result ..." 

On  that  topic  he  could  not  yet  trust  himself;  and  Roy,  leaning 
forward  impulsively,  laid  a  hand  on  his  knee. 

"  Grandfather,  I  have  promised  Ariina  —  and  I  promise  you  — 
that  somehow,  I  will  get  hold  of  him;  and  bring  him  back  to  his 
senses." 

Sir  Lakshman  covered  the  hand  with  his  own.  "True  son 
of  Lilamani!  But  I  fear  he  may  have  joined  some  secret  so- 
ciety; and  India  is  a  large  haystack  in  which  to  seek  one  human 
needle!" 

"But  Aruna  has  written  again.  She  is  convinced  he  will 
answer." 

Sir  Lakshman  sighed.  "Poor  Aruna!  I  am  not  sure  if  I  was 
altogether  wise  letting  her  go  to  the  Residency.  But  I  am  deeply 
grateful  to  Mrs.  Leigh.  India  needs  many  more  such  English 
women.  By  making  friends  with  high-bom  Indian  women,  it  is 
hardly  too  much  to  say  they  might,  together,  mend  more  than 
half  the  blunders  made  by  men  on  both  sides." 

Thus,  skilfully,  he  steered  clear  of  Aruna's  problem  that  was 
linked  with  matters  too  intimately  painful  for  discussion  with 
a  grandson,  however  dear. 

So  absorlDed  was  Roy  in  the  delight  of  reunion,  that  not  till  he 
rose  to  go  did  he  take  in  the  details  of  the  lofty  room.  Every- 
where Indian  workmanship  was  in  evidence.  The  pictures  were 
old  Rajput  paintings;  fine  examples  of  Vaishnava  art  —  pure 


194  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Hindu,  in  its  mingling  of  restraint  and  exuberance,  of  tenderness 
and  fury;  its  hallowing  of  all  life  and  idealising  of  all  love.  Only 
the  writing-table  and  swivel  chair  were  frankly  of  the  West,  and 
certain  shelves  full  of  English  books  and  reviews. 

"I  like  your  room,"  Roy  announced  after  leisurely  inspection. 
"But  I  don't  seem  to  remember  — " 

"You  would  be  a  miracle  if  you  did!  The  room  yoti  saw  had 
plush  curtains,  gilt  mirrors,  and  gilt  furniture;  in  fact,  the  correct 
'English-fashion'  guest-room  of  the  educated  Indian  gentleman. 
But  of  late  years,  I  have  seen  how  greatly  we  were  mistaken, 
making  imitation  England  to  honour  our  English  friends.  Some 
frankly  told  me  how  they  were  disappointed  to  find  in  our  houses 
only  caricatures  of  middle-class  England  or  France.  Such  rooms 
are  silent  barriers  to  friendship:  proclaiming  that  East  may  go  to 
tlie  West,  but  West  cannot  come  to  the  East." 

"In  a  way  that's  true,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes  —  in  a  way.  This  room,  of  course,  is  not  like  my  inner 
apartments.  It  is  like  myself,  however;  cultivated  —  but  still 
Indian.  It  is  my  way  of  preaching  true  Swadeshi :  —  Be  your 
own  self,  even  with  English  guests.  But  so  far  I  have  few  follow- 
ers. Some  are  too  foolishly  fond  of  their  mirrors  and  chandeliers 
and  gramophones.  Some  will  not  believe  such  trifles  can  affect 
friendliness.  Yet  —  strange,  but  true  —  too  much  Anglicising 
of  India,  instead  of  drawing  us  nearer,  seems  rather  to  widen  the 
gulf." 

Roy  nodded.  "I've  heard  that.  Yet  most  of  us  are  so  keen 
to  be  friends.  Queer,  perverse  things,  himian  beings  —  aren't 
they?" 

"And  for  that  reason,  more  interesting  than  all  the  wonders 
of  Earth!"  Setting  both  hands  on  Roy's  shoulders,  he  looked 
deeply  into  his  eyes.  "Come  and  see  me  often,  Z)i/i^M5/m.  It  lifts 
my  tired  heart  to  have  this  very  himian  being  so  near  me  again." 

Ten  minutes  later  Roy  was  riding  homeward  through  a  changed 
city;  streets  and  hills  and  sky  wrapped  in  the  mystery  of  en- 
croaching dusk. 

South  and  west  the  sky  flamed,  like  the  heart  of  a  fire  opal, 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  195 

through  a  veil  fine  as  gauze  —  dust  no  longer;  but  the  aura  of 
Jaipur.  Seen  afar,  through  the  coloured  gloom,  familiar  shapes 
took  on  strange  outlines;  moved  and  swayed,  mysteriously  de- 
tached, in  a  sea  of  shadows,  scattered,  here  and  there,  by  flames 
of  little  dinner  fires  along  the  pavements.  The  brilliant,  shifting 
crowd  of  two  hours  ago  seemed  to  have  sunk  into  the  earth.  For 
there  is  no  night  life  in  the  streets  of  Jaipur.  Travellers  had 
passed  on  and  out.  Merchants  had  stowed  away  their  muslins 
and  embroideries,  their  vessels  of  brass  and  copper  and  priceless 
enamels.  Only  the  starving  lay  in  huddled  heaps  as  before  — 
ominously  still;  while  above  them  vultures  and  eagles  circled, 
expectant,  ink-black  against  the  immense  radiance  beyond. 
Grey,  deepening  to  black,  were  flat  roofs,  cornices,  minarets,  and 
massed  foliage,  and  the  flitting  shadows,  with  lifted  tails,  that 
careered  along  the  house-tops;  or  perched  on  some  jutting  angle, 
skinny  elbows  crooked,  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  fleas.  For  sun- 
set is  the  monkeys'  hour,  and  the  eerie  gibbering  of  these  imps  of 
darkness  struck  a  bizarre  note  in  the  hush  that  shrouded  the 
city. 

Roy  knew,  now,  why  Thea  had  stayed  his  impatience;  and 
he  blessed  her  sympathetic  understanding.  But,  just  then  — 
steeped  in  India  at  her  most  magical  hour  —  it  was  hard  to  be- 
lieve in  the  Residency  household;  in  English  dinner-tables  and 
English  detachment  from  the  mediaeval  medley  of  splendoiu:  and 
squalor,  of  courage  and  cruelty  and  dumb  endiurance,  of  arts  and 
crafts  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of  enlightened  knowledge  that 
was  Jaipur.  It  seemed  more  like  a  week  than  a  few  hours  since 
he  had  turned  in  the  saddle  to  salute  Aruna  and  ridden  out  into 
another  world:  —  her  world,  which  was  also  in  a  measure  his 
own  .  . . 

On  and  on  he  rode,  at  a  foot's  pace,  followed  by  his  twin  shad- 
ov/s;  past  the  temples  of  Maha  Deo,  still  rosy  where  they  faced 
the  west  still  rumbling  and  throbbing  with  muffled  music;  past 
wayside  shrines;  mere  alcoves  for  grotesque  images  —  Shiva, 
Lord  of  Death,  or  Ganesh,  the  Elephant  God  —  each  with  bis 
scented  garlands  and  his  flickering  chirdgh;  past  shadowy  groups 
roimd  the  dinner  fires,  cooking  their  evening  meal:  on  and  out 


196  FAR  TO  SEEK 

through  the  double  fortified  gateways  into  the  deserted  road,  his 
whole  being  drenched  in  the  silence  and  the  deepening  dusk. 

Here,  outside  the  city,  emptiness  loomed  almost  like  a  pres- 
ence. Only  the  trees  were  alive;  each  with  its  colony  of  peacocks 
and  parrots  and  birds  of  prey  noisily  settling  to  rest.  The  pea- 
cocks' unearthly  cry  and  the  far^  ghostly  laugh  of  jackals  —  au- 
thentic voice  of  India  at  sundown  —  sent  a  chill  down  Roy's 
spine.  For  he,  who  had  scarcely  known  fear  on  the  battle-field, 
was  ignominiously  at  the  mercy  of  imagination  and  the  eerie 
spirit  of  the  hour. 

At  a  flick  of  the  reins,  Suraj  broke  into  a  smart  canter,  will- 
ingly enough.  What  were  sunsets  or  local  devils  to  him  compared 
with  stables  and  gram?^ 

And  as  they  sped  on,  as  trees  on  either  side  slid  by  like  stealthy 
ghosts,  the  sunset  splendour  died,  only  to  rise  again  in  a  volcanic 
afterglow,  on  which  trunks  and  twigs  and  battlemented  hills 
were  printed  in  daguerreotype;  and  desert  voices  were  drowned 
in  clamour  of  cicadas,  grinding  their  knives  in  foolish  ecstasy; 
and,  at  last,  he  swerved  between  the  friendly  gate-posts  of  the 
Residency  —  the  richer  for  a  spiritual  adventure  that  could 
neither  be  imparted,  nor  repeated.,  nor  forgotten  while  he  lived. 
*  Parched  com. 


Chapter  VII 

The  deepest  thing  in  our  nature  is  this  dumb  region  of  the  heart, 
where  we  dwell  alone  with  our  willingnesses  and  unwillingnesses, 
our  faiths  and  our  fears. 

William  Jamxs 

Not  least  among  the  joys  of  Aruna's  return  to  the  freer  life  of 
the  Residency  was  her  veiy  own  verandah  balcony.  Here,  secure 
from  intrusion,  she  could  devote  the  first  and  last  hours  of  her 
day  to  meditation  oi  prayer.  Oxford  studies  had  confused  a 
little,  but  not  killed,  the  faith  of  her  fathers.  The  real  trouble 
was  that,  too  often,  nowadays,  that  exigent  heart  of  hers  would 
intrude  upon  her  sacred  devotions,  transforming  them  into  day- 
dreams, haloed  with  a  hope  the  more  frankly  formulated  because 
she  was  of  the  East. 

For  Thea  had  guessed  aright.  Roy  was  the  key  to  her  waver- 
ings, hex  refusals,  her  eager  acceptance  of  the  emergency  plan: 
—  welcome  in  itself;  still  more  welcome  because  it  permitted  her 
simply  to  await  his  coming. 

They  had  been  very  wonderful,  those  five  years  in  England; 
in  spite  of  anxieties  and  disappointed  hopes.  But  when  Dydn 
departed  and  Mesopotamia  engulfed  Roy,  India  had  won  the 
day.  How  unforgettable  that  exalted  moment  of  decision,  one 
drenched  and  dismal  winter  evening;  the  sudden  craving  for 
sights  and  sounds  and  smells  of  her  own  land!  How  slow  the 
swiftest  steamer  to  the  speed  of  her  racing  thoughts!  How  bitter, 
beyond  belief,  the  first  faint  chill  of  disappointment;  the  pang  of 
realising  —  how  reluctantly  I  —  that,  within  herself,  she  belonged 
whole-heartedly  to  neither  world  I 

She  had  returned  qualified  for  medical  work,  by  her  experience 
in  a  College  hospital  at  Oxford;  yet  hampered  by  an  innate 
shrinking  from  the  sick  and  maimed,  who  had  been  too  much 
with  her  in  those  years  of  war.  Not  less  innate  was  the  urge  of 
her  whole  being  to  fulfil  her  womanhood  through  marriage 


198  FAR  TO  SEEK 

rather  than  through  work.  And  in  the  light  of  that  discovery,  she 
saw  her  dilemma  plain.  Either  she  must  hope  to  marry  an  Eng- 
lishman and  break  with  India,  like  Aunt  Lilamani;  or  accept,  at 
the  hands  of  the  matchmaker,  an  enlightened  bridegroom,  un- 
seen, unknown,  whose  family  would  overlook  —  at  a  price  — 
her  advanced  age  and  English  adventures. 

Against  the  last,  all  that  England  and  Oxford  had  given  her 
rose  up  in  revolt. . . .  But  the  discarded,  subconscious  Aruna  was 
centuries  older  than  the  half-fledged  being  who  hovered  on  the 
rim  of  the  nest,  distrustful  of  her  untried  wings  and  the  pathless 
sky.  That  Aruna  had,  for  ally,  the  spirit  of  the  ages;  more  for- 
midable, if  less  assertive,  than  the  transient  spirit  of  the  age. 
And  the  fledgeling  Aruna  knew  perfectly  well  that  the  English- 
man of  her  alternative  was,  confessedly  —  Roy.  His  mother 
being  Indian,  she  innocently  supposed  there  would  be  no  trouble 
of  prejudice;  no  stupid  talk  of  the  gulf  that  she  and  Dyan  had 
set  out  to  bridge.  That  Dyan  had  failed  only  made  her  the  more 
anxious  to  succeed. . . . 

Soon  after  arriving  she  had  taken  up  hospital  work  in  the 
woman's  ward  because  Miss  Hammond  was  kind;  and  her  edu- 
cated self  had  need  of  occupation.  Her  other  self  —  deeply  lov- 
ing her  grandfather  —  had  urged  her  to  try  and  live  at  home;  so 
far  as  her  unregenerate  state  would  permit. 

As  out-of-caste,  she  had  been  exempt  from  kitchen  work;  de- 
barred from  touching  any  food  except  the  portion  set  aside  for 
her  meals,  that  were  eaten  apart  in  Sir  Lakshman's  room  —  her 
haven  of  refuge.  In  the  Inside,  she  was  at  the  mercy  of  women's 
tongues  and  the  petty  tyranny  of  Mataji;  antagonistic  as  ever; 
sharpened  and  narrowed  with  age,  even  as  her  grandfather  had 
mellowed  and  grown  beautiful,  with  the  unearthly  beauty  of  the 
old,  whose  spirit  shines  visibly  through  the  attenuated  veil  of 
flesh.  Aruna,  watching  him,  with  clearer  understanding,  mar- 
velled how  he  had  preserved  his  serenity  of  soul  through  a  life- 
time of  Mataji's  dominion. 

And  the  other  women  —  relations  in  various  degrees  —  took 
their  tone  from  her,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  peace:  —  the  widowed 
sister-in-law,  suavely  satirical;  a  great-aunt,  whose  tongue  clacked 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  199 

like  a  rice-husker;  two  cousins,  correctly  betrothed  to  unseen 
bridegrooms,  entitled  to  look  askance  at  the  abandoned  one,  who 
was  neither  wife  nor  mother;  and  two  children  of  a  poor  relation 
—  embryo  women,  who  echoed  the  jeers  of  their  elders  at  her 
English  friends,  her  obstinacy  in  the  matter  of  caste  and  the 
inevitable  husband.  Hai!  Hai!  At  her  age,  what  did  she  fear? 
Had  the  English  bewitched  her  with  lies?  Thus  Peru,  aged  nine, 
jocosely  proceeding  to  enlighten  her;  egged  on  by  giggles  and 
high-pitched  laughter  from  the  prospective  brides.  For  in  the 
zenana  reticence  is  not,  even  before  children.  Ariina  herself  had 
heard  such  talk;  but  for  years  her  early  knowledge  had  lain  dor- 
mant; while  fastidiousness  had  been  engendered  by  English 
studies  and  contact  with  English  youth.  Useless  to  answer.  It 
simply  meant  tears  or  losing  her  temper;  in  which  case,  Mataji 
would  retaliate  by  doctoring  her  food  with  red  pepper  to  sweeten 
her  tongue. 

Meantime  sharpened  pressure  in  the  matter  of  caste  rites,  and 
rumours  of  an  actually  maturing  husband,  had  brought  her  very 
near  the  end  of  her  tether.  Again  Thea  was  right.  Her  brave 
impulse  of  the  heart  had  only  been  just  in  time.  And  hard  upon 
that  unbelievable  good  fortune  followed  the  news  that  Roy  was 
coming. 

Tremulously  at  first,  then  with  quickening  confidence,  her 
happy  nature  rose  like  a  sea-bird  out  of  troubled  waters,  on  the 
wings  of  a  secret  hope  . . . 

And  now  he  was  here,  under  this  friendly  roof  that  sheltered 
her  from  the  tender  mercies  of  her  own  kind.  There  were  almost 
daily  meetings,  however  brief,  and  the  after-glow  of  them  when 
past;  all  the  well-remembered  tricks  of  speech  and  manner;  and 
the  twinkle  of  fun  in  his  eyes.  Lapped  in  an  ecstasy  of  content, 
hope  scarcely  stirred  a  wing.   Enough  that  he  was  there  — 

Great  was  her  joy  when  Mrs.  Leigh  —  after  scolding  him  in  the 
kindest  way  over  the  girl  mother  and  two  more  starving  children, 
picked  up  afterwards  —  had  given  her  leave  to  take  special  charge 
of  them  and  lodged  them  with  the  dkobi's  wife.  This  also  brought 
her  nearer  to  Roy.  And  what  could  she  ask  more? 


aoo  FAR  TO  SEEK 

But  with  the  approach  of  the  Dewdli,  thoughts  of  the  future 
came  flocking  like  birds  at  sundown.  Because,  on  Dewali-night, 
all  tried  their  luck  in  some  fashion;  and  Mai  Lakshmi's  answer 
failed  not.  The  men  tossed  coin  or  dice.  The  maidens,  at  sunset, 
when  the  little  wind  of  evening  stirred  the  waters,  carried  each 
her  chirdgh  —  lamp  of  her  life  —  and  set  it  afloat  on  tank  or 
stream,  praying  Mai  Lakshmi  to  guide  it  safe  across.  If  the 
prayer  was  heard,  omens  were  favourable.  If  the  lamp  should 
sink,  or  be  shattered,  omens  were  evil.  And  the  centuries-old 
Aruna  —  still  at  the  mercy  of  dastUr  —  had  secretly  bought  her 
little  chirdgh  secretly  resolved  to  try  her  fate  on  the  night  of 
nights.  If  the  answer  were  unfavourable  —  and  courage  failed 
her  —  there  was  always  one  way  of  escape.  The  water  that  put 
out  her  lamp  would  as  carelessly  put  out  the  flame  of  her  life;  in 
a  little  moment;  without  pain  . . . 

A  small  shiver  convulsed  her  —  kneeling  there  in  her  balcony; 
her  bare  arms  resting  on  the  balustrade.  The  new  Aruna  shrank 
from  thought  of  death.  She  craved  the  fulness  of  life  and  love  — 
kisses  and  rapture  and  the  clinging  arms  of  little  children  . . . 

For  as  she  knelt  in  the  moonlight,  nominally  she  was  invoking 
Mai  Lakshmi;  actually  she  was  dreaming  of  Roy;  chiding  herself 
for  the  foolishness  that  had  kept  her  from  appearing  at  dinner: 
hoping  he  might  wonder,  and  think  of  her  a  little  —  wishing  her 
there.  But  perhaps  he  was  simply  not  noticing  —  not  caring  at 
all  — 

Stung  by  the  thought,  she  clenched  her  hands  and  lifted  her 
bowed  head.   Then  she  started  —  and  caught  her  breath  — 

Could  it  be  he,  down  there  among  the  shadows;  wandering, 
dreaming,  thinking  of  her,  or  making  poems?  She  knew  most  of 
his  slim  volume  by  heart.  More  likely  he  was  framing  bold  plans 
to  find  Dydn  —  now  the  answer  to  her  letter  had  come.  It  was 
a  strange,  unsatisfying  answer;  full  of  affection,  but  too  full  of 
windy  phrases  that  she  was  shrewd  enough  to  recognise  as  mere 
echoes  from  those  others,  who  had  ensnared  him  in  a  web  of 
words. 

"Fear  not  for  me,  sister  of  my  heart,"  he  wrote.  "Rejoice 
because  I  am  dedicated  to  service  of  the  Mother,  that  she  may 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  COI 

be  released  from  political  bondage  and  shine  again  in  her  ancient 
glory;  no  longer  exploited  by  foreigners,  who  imagine  that  with 
bricks  and  stones  they  can  lock  up  Veda  —  eternal  truth!  The 
gods  have  spoken.  It  is  time.  KaU  rises  in  the  East,  with  her 
necklet  of  skulls  —  giants  of  evil  she  has  slain.  It  is  she  who 
speaks  through  the  voice  of  our  patriot:  'Do  not  wall  up  your 
vision,  like  frogs  in  a  well  —  Rise  above  the  Penal  Code  into 
the  rarefied  atmosphere  of  the  Gita  and  consider  the  actions  of 
heroic  men.' 

"  You  ask  if  I  still  love  Roy?  Why  not?  He  is  of  our  own  blood 
and  a  very  fine  fellow.  But  I  don't  write  now  because  he  would 
not  understand  my  fervour  of  soul.  So  don't  you  take  all  his 
opinions  for  gospel;  like  my  grandfather's,  they  are  well  meant, 
but  obsolete.  If  only  you  had  courage,  Aruna-ji,  to  accept  the 
enlightened  husband,  who  might  not  keep  you  in  strict  purdah^ 
then  we  could  work  together  for  liberation  of  the  Mother.  'Sing 
Bande  Mataram,^  forty  thousand  brothers! '  That  is  our  battle- 
cry.  And  one  of  those  is  your  own  fond  brother  —  Dydn  Singh." 

Aruna  had  read  and  re-read  that  bewildering  effusion  till  tears 
fell  and  blotted  the  words.  Could  this  be  the  same  Dyan  who  had 
known  and  loved  England  even  as  she  did?  His  eloquence  some- 
how failed  to  carry  conviction.  To  her,  the  soul  of  new  India 
seemed  like  a  book  full  of  contradictions,  written  in  many 
strange  languages,  hard  to  read.  But  behind  that  tangle  of 
words  beat  the  heart  of  Dyan  —  the  brother  who  was  her  all. 

Still  no  address  was  given.  But  Roy  had  declared  the  Delhi 
post-mark  sufficient  clue.  Directly  Dewdli  was  over,  he  would 
go.  And,  by  every  right  impulse,  she  ought  to  be  more  glad  than 
sad.  But  the  heart,  like  the  tongue,  can  no  man  tame.  And 
sometimes  his  eagerness  to  go  hurt  her  a  little.  Was  he  thinking 
of  Delhi  down  there  —  or  of  her  —  ? 

The  shadow  had  turned  and  was  moving  towards  her.  There 
was  a  white  splash  of  shirt-front,  the  glow  of  a  cigarette. 

Suddenly  his  pace  quickened.  He  had  seen  her.  Next  moment 
he  was  standing  under  her  balcony.  His  low-pitched  voice  came 
distinctly  to  her  ears. 

»  Hail,  Mother  1 


202  FAR  TO  SEEK 

" Good  evening  —  Juliet!  Quit  your  dreaming.  Come  and  be 
sociable  down  here." 

Delicious  tremors  ran  through  her.  Much  too  bold,  going 
down  in  the  dark.   But  how  to  resist? 

"I  think  —  better  not,"  she  faltered,  incipient  surrender  in 
her  tone.  "You  see  —  not  coming  down  to  dinner ...  Mrs. 
Leigh..." 

"Bother  Mrs.  Leigh.  I've  got  a  ripping  inspiration  about 
Delhi.   Hurry  up.   I'll  be  by  the  steps." 

Then  he  had  been  thinking  of  Delhi.  But  he  wanted  her  now; 
and  the  note  of  command  extinguished  hesitation.  Slipping  on 
a  cloak,  she  reached  the  verandah  without  meeting  a  soul.  He  put 
out  a  hand.  Purely  on  impulse,  she  gave  him  her  left  one;  and 
he  conducted  her  down  the  steps  with  mock  ceremony,  as  if  lead- 
ing her  out  to  tread  a  measure  to  unheard  strains  of  the  viola  and 
spinet.  Happiness  ran  like  wine  in  her  veins:  and  catching  his 
mood  she  swept  him  a  curtsy,  English  fashion. 

"Fit  for  the  Queen's  Drawing-Room ! "  he  applauded;  and  she 
smiled  up  at  him  under  her  straight  lashes.  "Why  didn't  you 
appear  at  dinner?  Is  it  just  a  whim  —  hiding  your  light  under 
a  bushel?  Or  do  you  get  headaches  and  heartaches  working  in 
the  ward,  and  feel  out  of  tune  with  our  frivol?" 

The  solicitude  in  Ms  tone  was  worth  many  headaches  and 
heartaches  to  hear  again.   But  with  him  she  could  not  pretend. 

"No  —  not  headaches!"  she  said,  treading  the  grass  beside 
him,  as  if  it  were  a  moonlit  cloud.  "Only  sometimes  ...  I  am 
foolish  —  not  inclined  for  so  many  faces;  and  all  the  lights  and 
the  talk." 

He  nodded.  "I  know  that  feeling.  The  same  strain  in  us,  I 
suppose.  But,  look  here,  about  Dyan.  It  suddenly  struck  me 
I'd  have  ten  times  better  chance  if  I  went  as  an  Indian.  I  can 
talk  the  language  to  admiration.  What  d'you  think?" 

She  caught  her  breath.  A  vision  of  him,  so  transformed, 
seemed  to  bring  him  surprisingly  nearer.  "But  how  exciting! 
How  bold!" 

"Yes  —  but  not  impossible.  If  I  could  lodge  with  someone 
who  knew,  I  believe  I  could  pull  it  through.  Grandfather  might 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  203 

arrange  that.  It  would  give  me  a  chance  to  get  m  among  Dyan'3 
set  and  hear  things.  Don't  breathe  a  word  to  anyone.  I  must 
talk  it  all  over  with  Grandfather." 

"Oh!  I  would  love  to  see  you  turned  into  a  Rajput,"  she 
breathed. 

"You  shall  see  me.  I'll  come  and  make  my  salaams  and  ask 
your  blessing  on  my  venture." 

"And  I  will  make  prasad  for  your  journey!"  Her  unveiled 
eyes  met  his  frankly  now.  "A  portion  for  Dydn  too.  It  may 
speak  to  his  heart  louder  than  words." 

''Prasad!  What's  that?" 

"Food  prepared  and  consecrated  by  touch  of  mother  or  sister 
or  —  or  nearest  woman  relation.  And  by  absence  of  those  others 
. .  .  it  is  .  .  .  my  privilege  — " 

"My  privilege.  I  wouldn't  forego  it  for  a  kingdom."  Such 
patent  sincerity  in  the  reverent  quiet  of  his  tone  that  she  was 
^eechless. 

For  less  than  half  an  hour  they  strolled  on  that  moon-enchanted 
lawn.  Nothing  was  said  by  either  that  the  rest  might  not  have 
heard.  Yet  it  was  a  transfigured  Aruna  who  approached  the 
verandah,  where  Thea  stood  awaiting  them;  having  come  out  to 
look  for  Roy  and  found  the  clue  to  his  prolonged  meditations. 

"What  have  you  been  plotting,  you  two?"  she  asked  lightly 
when  they  reached  her.  To  Roy  her  eyes  said:  "D'you  call 
this  being  discreet?"  To  Aruna  her  lips  said:  "Graceless  one! 
I  thought  you  were  purdah  nashin  this  evening!" 

"So  she  was,"  Roy  answered  for  her.  "I'm  the  culprit,  I  in- 
sisted. Some  details  about  my  Delhi  trip  I  wanted  to  talk  over." 

Thea  wrinkled  her  forehead.  "Roy  —  you  mustn't.  It's  a 
crazy  plan — " 

"Pardon  me  —  an  inspired  plan!"  He  drew  himself  up  half 
an  inch,  the  better  to  look  down  on  her.  "Nothing  on  earth  can 
put  me  off  it  —  except  Grandfather.  And  I  know  he'll  back 
me  up," 

"In  that  case,  I  won't  waste  valuable  verbal  ammuniuon  on 
you!  Come  along  in.  We're  going  to  have  music." 

But  as  Roy  moved  forward,  Aruna  drew  back.   "Please—' 


eo4  FAR  TO  SEEK 

I  would  rather  go  to  bed  now.  And  —  please,  forgive,  little 
Mother,"  she  murmured  caressingly.  For  this  great-hearted 
English  woman  seemed  mother,  indeed,  to  her  now. 

For  answer  Thea  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  kissed  her 
on  both  cheeks.  "Not  guilty  this  time,  pidri}  But  don't  do  it 
again!" 

Roy's  hand  closed  hard  on  hers,  but  he  said  not  a  word.  And 
she  was  glad. 

Alone  again  on  her  balcony,  gladness  rioted  through  all  her 
being.  Yet  —  nothing  had  really  happened.  Nothing  had  been 
said.  Only  —  everything  felt  different  inside.  Of  such  are  life's 
supreme  moments.  They  come  without  flourish  of  trumpets; 
touch  the  heart  or  the  lips  with  fire;  and  pass  on  .  .  . 

While  undressing,  an  impulse  seized  her  to  break  her  little 
chirdgh  and  treasure  the  pieces  —  in  memory  of  to-night.  Why 
trouble  Mai  Lakshmi  with  a  question  already  half  answered? 
But,  lost  in  happy  thoughts,  inwoven  with  delicate  threads  of 
sound  from  Thea's  violin,  she  forgot  all  about  it,  tiU  the 
warmth  of  her  cheek  nestled  against  the  cool  pillow.  Too  deli- 
ciously  lazy  and  comfortable  to  stir,  she  told  her  foolish  heart 
that  to-morrow  morning  would  do  quite  as  well. 

But  the  light  of  morning  dimmed,  a  little,  her  mood  of  exalted 
assurance.  Habit  and  superstition  prevailed  over  that  so  arro- 
gant impulse,  and  the  mystic  chirdgh  of  destiny  was  saved  — 
for  another  fate. 

>  Darling. 


Chapter  VIII 

The  forces  that  fashion,  the  hands  that  mould, 
Are  the  -minds  fire-laden,  t/ie  sky,  the  rain:  — 

They  are  gods  no  more,  but  their  spells  remain. 

SiK  Alfred  Lyaix 

Dewali-night  at  last;  and  all  Jaipur  astir  in  the  streets  at  sun- 
down awaiting  the  given  moment  that  never  quite  loses  its  qual- 
ity of  miracle  . . . 

For  weeks  every  potter's  wheel  had  been  whirling,  double  tides, 
turning  out  little  clay  chirdghs,  by  the  thousand,  that  none  might 
fail  of  honouring  Mai  Lakshmi  —  a  compound  of  Minerva  and 
Ceres  —  worshipped  alike  in  the  living  gold  of  fire  and  the  dead 
gold  of  minted  coin.  And  all  day  long  there  had  ebbed  and  flowed 
through  the  temple  doors  a  rainbow-coloured  stream  of  wor- 
shippers: while  the  dust-laden  air  vibrated  with  jangle  of  metal 
bells,  wail  of  conches,  and  raucous  clamour  of  crows.  Within- 
doors, the  rattle  of  dice  rivalled  the  jangle  of  bells.  Young  or  old, 
none  failed  to  consult  those  mysterious  arbiters  on  this  auspicious 
day.  Houses,  shops,  and  balconies  had  been  swept  and  freshly 
plastered  with  cow-dung  in  honour  of  Vishnu's  bride;  and  con- 
spicuous among  festal  shop-fronts  was  the  gay  assemblage  of 
toys.  For  the  Feast  of  Lights  is  also  a  feast  of  toys  in  bewilder- 
ing variety;  toys  in  sugar,  in  paper,  in  burnt  clay;  tinselled,  or 
gorgeously  painted  with  colours  such  as  never  were  on  ox  or  ele- 
phant, fish  or  bird.  What  matter?  To  the  uncritical  Eastern 
eye,  coloiu*  is  all. 

And,  as  the  day  wore  on,  colour,  and  yet  more  colour,  was 
spilled  abroad  in  the  wide  main  streets  that  are  an  arresting  fea- 
ture of  Jaipiu*.  Men,  women,  and  children,  in  gala  turbans  and 
gala  draperies,  laughing  and  talking  at  full  pitch  of  their  lungs; 
gala  elephants  sheathed  in  cloth  of  gold,  their  trunks  and  fore- 
heads patterned  in  divers  colours;  scarlet  outriders  clearing  a 
pathway  through  the  maze  of  turbans  that  bobbed  to  and  fro  like 


206  FAR  TO  SEEK 

a  bed  of  parrot-tulips  in  a  wind.  Crimson,  agate  and  apricot, 
copper  and  flame-colour,  greens  and  yellows;  every  conceivable 
harmony  and  discord;  nothing  to  rival  it  anywhere.  Sir  Laksh- 
man  told  Roy;  save  perhaps  in  Gwalior  or  Mandalay. 

Roy  had  spent  most  of  the  morning  in  the  city,  lunching  with 
his  grandfather  and  imbibing  large  draughts  of  colour  from  an 
airy  minaret  on  the  roof-top.  Then  home  to  the  Residency  for 
tea,  only  to  insist  on  carrying  them  all  back  in  the  car  —  Thea, 
Anina,  Flossie,  and  the  children,  who  must  have  their  share  of 
strange  sweets  and  toys,  if  only  'for  luck,'  the  watchword  of 
Dewali. 

As  for  Aruna  —  to-day  everything  in  the  world  seemed  to 
hang  on  the  frail  thread  of  those  two  words.  And  what  of  to- 
night . . .  ? 

All  had  been  arranged  in  conjunction  with  Roy.  His  insistence 
on  the  cousinly  privilege  of  protecting  her  had  arisen  from  a  pri- 
vate confession  that  she  shrank  from  joining  the  orthodox  group  • 
of  maidens  who  would  go  forth  at  sundown,  to  try  their  fate. 
She  was  other  than  they  were;  out  of  purdah;  out  of  caste;  a  be- 
ing apart.  And  for  most  of  them  it  was  little  more  than  a  *  game  of 
play.'  For  her  —  but  that  she  kept  to  herself  —  this  symbolical 
act  of  faith,  this  childish  appeal  for  a  sign,  was  a  matter  of  life 
and  death.  So  —  to  her  chosen  angle  of  the  tank,  she  would  go 
alone;  and  there  —  unwatched,  save  by  Dewali  lights  of  earth 
and  heaven  —  she  would  confide  her  lamp  to  the  waters  and  the 
lively  breeze  that  rippled  them  in  the  first  hour  of  darkness. 

But  Roy  would  not  hear  of  her  wandering  alone  in  a  Dewali 
crowd.  In  Dyan's  absence,  he  claimed  the  right  to  accompany 
her,  to  be  somewhere  within  hail.  Having  shed  the  Eastern  pro- 
tection of  purdah,  she  must  accept  the  Western  protection  of 
escort.  And  straightway  there  sprang  an  inspiration ;  he  would 
wear  his  Indian  dress,  ready  and  waiting  in  every  detail,  at  Sir 
Lakshman's  house.  From  there,  he  could  set  out  unnoticed  on 
the  Delhi  adventure  —  which  his  grandfather  happily  approved, 
with  what  profound  heart-searchings  and  heart-stirrings  Roy 
did  not  even  dimly  guess. 

At  sundown  the  Residency  party  would  drive  through  the  city 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  ao7 

and  finish  up  at  the  gardens,  before  going  on  to  dine  at  the  Palace. 
That  would  be  Aruna's  moment  for  slipping  away.  Roy  —  hav- 
ing slipped  away  in  advance  —  would  rejoin  her  at  a  given  spot. 
And  then  —  ? 

The  rest  was  a  tremulous  blur  of  hopes  and  fears  and  the  thrill 
of  his  presence,  conjured  into  one  of  her  own  people  . . . 

Sundown,  at  last;  and  the  drive,  in  her  exalted  mood,  was 
an  ecstasy  no  possible  after-pain  or  disappointment  could  dim. 
As  the  flaming  tint  of  sunset  faded  and  shafts  of  amethyst  struck 
upward  into  the  blue,  buildings  grew  shadowy;  immense  vistas 
seemed  to  melt  into  the  landscape,  shrouded  in  a  veil  of  desert 
dust. 

Then  —  the  first  flickering  points  of  fire  —  primrose-pale,  in 
the  half  light;  deepening  to  orange,  as  night  rolled  up  out  of  the 
east,  and  the  little  blown  flames  seemed  to  flit  along  of  their  own 
volition,  so  skilled  and  swift  were  the  invisible  hands  at  work. 

From  roof  to  roof,  from  balcony  to  balcony,  they  ran:  till 
vanished  Jaipur  emerged  from  her  shroud,  a  city  transfigured: 
cupolas,  arches,  balconies,  and  temples.  Palace  of  the  Mahardja 
and  lofty  Hall  of  the  Winds  —  every  detail  faultlessly  traced  on 
darkness,  in  delicate,  tremulous  lines  of  fire.  Only  here  and  there 
illusion  was  shattered  by  garish  globes  of  electric  fight,  dim- 
ming the  mellow  radiance  of  thousands  on  thousands  of  modest 
chirdghs. 

Aruna  had  seen  many  Dewdli-nights  in  her  time;  but  never  at 
a  moment  so  charged  with  conflicting  emotions.  Silent,  absorbed, 
she  sat  by  Thea  in  the  barouche;  Roy  and  Vernon  opposite; 
Phyllis  on  her  mother's  knee;  the  others  in  the  car  on  ahead  — 
including  a  tourist  of  note  —  outriders  before  and  behind,  clear- 
ing a  pathway  through  tlie  press.  Vernon,  jigging  on  his  feet, 
was  lost  in  wonder.  Roy,  like  Aruna,  said  little.  Only  Thea  kept 
up  a  low  ripple  of  talk  with  her  babe  . . . 

By  now  not  only  the  city  was  alight,  but  the  enclosing  hills, 
where  bonfires  laughed  in  flame.  Jewelled  coronets  twinkled  on 
bastions  of  the  Tiger  Fort.  Threads  of  fire  traced  every  cmtvq 
and  line  of  Jai  Singh's  tomb.  And  on  either  side  of  the  carriage, 


208  FAR  TO  SEEK 

the  crowd  swayed  and  hummed;  laughing,  jesting,  boasting;  in- 
toxicated with  the  spirit  of  festival,  that  found  an  echo  in  Aruna's 
heart  and  rioted  in  her  veins.  To-night  she  felt  merged  in  India, 
Eastern  to  the  core;  capable,  almost,  of  wondering  —  could  she 
put  it  away  from  her,  even  at  the  bidding  of  Roy  —  ? 

On  they  drove,  away  from  crowded  pavements,  towards  the 
Man  Sagar  Lake,  where  ruined  temples  and  palaces  dreamed  and 
gleamed,  knee  deep  in  the  darkling  water;  where  jackals  prowled 
and  cranes  nested  and  muggers  dozed  unheeding.  At  a  point  of 
vantage  above  the  Lake,  they  halted  and  sat  awhile  in  dark- 
ness —  a  group  of  silent  shadows.  Words  did  not  meet  the 
case.  Even  Vernon  ceased  his  jigging  and  baby  Phyllis  uttered 
no  sound:  for  she  had  fallen  asleep. 

Aruna,  resting  an  elbow  on  the  side  of  the  carriage,  sat  lost  in 
a  dream  .  . . 

Suddenly,  electrically,  she  was  aware  of  contact  with  Roy's 
coat-sleeve.  He  had  leaned  forward  to  catch  a  particular  effect 
and  was  probably  not  aware  of  his  trespassing  arm;  for  he  did  not 
shift  it  till  he  had  gazed  his  fill.  Then,  with  a  long  sigh,  he  leaned 
back  again.  But  Aruna's  dream  was  shattered  by  sensations  too 
startlingly  real  to  be  ignored  . . . 

Once,  driving  back,  as  they  passed  under  an  electric  globe,  she 
caught  his  eyes  on  her  face,  and  they  exchanged  a  smile.  Did  he 
know  —  ?  Did  he  ever  feel  —  like  that? 

Near  Sir  Lakshman's  house  they  stopped  again  and  Roy 
leaned  towards  her. 

''I'll  be  quick  as  lightning  —  don't  stir  till  I  come,"  he  said  — 
and  vanished. 

Some  fifteen  minutes  later,  she  stood  alone  in  the  jewelled 
darkness,  awaiting  him;  her  own  fhckering  jewel  held  between 
her  hands.  She  had  brought  it  with  her,  complete;  matches  and 
a  tiny  bottle  of  oil,  stowed  in  a  cardboard  box.  Mrs.  Leigh  — 
angel  of  goodness  —  had  lit  the  wick  with  her  own  hand  —  'for 
luck.'  How  Roy  had  made  her  so  completely  their  ally,  she  had 
no  idea.  But  who  could  resist  him  —  after  all?  Waiting  alone, 
her  courage  ebbed  a  Httle;  but  he  came  quick  as  lightning,  ar- 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  209 

rayed  in  a  choga  of  some  dark  material  and  the  larger  turban  of 
the  North;  —  so  changed,  she  scarcely  knew  him  till  he  saluted 
and,  with  a  gesture,  bade  her  go  forward. 

Through  the  dark  archway,  under  a  block  of  zenana  buildings 
they  passed:  and  there  lay  before  them  the  great  tank  patterned 
with  quivering  threads  of  light.  Her  chosen  comer  was  an  un- 
frequented spot.  A  little  farther  on,  shadowy  figures  moved  and 
talked. 

"You  see,"  she  explained  under  her  breath,  as  though  they 
were  conspirators,  "if  the  wind  is  kind,  it  will  cut  across  there 
making  the  mystical  triangle;  symbol  of  perfect  knowledge  — 
new  birth.  I  am  only  afraid  it  is  getting  a  little  too  strong.  And 
if  anything  should  hinder  it  from  crossing,  then  —  there  is  no 
answer.  Suspense  —  all  the  time.  But  —  we  will  hope.  Now, 
please,  I  must  be  alone.  In  the  shadow  of  this  building,  few  will 
notice  me.  Afterwards,  I  will  call  softly.  But  don't  —  go  too 
far." 

"Trust  me.  And  —  see  here,  Aruna,  don't  make  too  much  of 
it  —  either  way.  Mai  Lakshmi's  not  Queen  of  all  the  Immor- 
tals—" 

"Oh,  hush!  She  is  bride  of  Vishnu!" 

Roy's  smile  was  half  amused,  half  tender.  "Well!  I  hope  she 
plays  up  —  royally." 

And  with  a  formal  salute,  he  left  her. 

Alone,  crouching  near  the  water's  edge,  she  held  out  her  cockle- 
shell with  its  blown  wisp  of  light.  "  0  Lamp  of  my  life,  flame  of 
my  heart,"  she  addressed  it,  just  above  her  breath.  "Sail  safely 
through  the  wavelets  and  answer  truly  what  fate  awaits  me 
now?  Will  Mai  Lakshmi  grant  the  blessing  I  crave?  " 

With  a  gentle  push  she  set  it  afloat;  then,  kneeling  close 
against  the  building,  deep  in  shadow,  she  covered  her  face  and 
prayed,  childish,  incoherent  prayers,  for  some  solution  of  her 
difiicult  problem  that  would  be  best,  alike,  for  her  and  Roy. 

But  curiosity  was  clamant.  She  must  see  —  she  must  know  — 

Springing  up,  she  stood  near  the  coping,  one  hand  on  a  low 
abutment,  all  her  conscious  being  centred  on  the  adventuring 
flame  that  swayed  and  curtsied  at  the  caprice  of  the  wind.  The 


2IO  FAR  TO  SEEK 

effect  of  her  concentration  was  almost  hypnotic:  as  if  her  soul, 
deserting  her  still  body,  flickered  away  there  on  the  water;  as  if 
every  threat  of  wind  or  wavelet  struck  at  her  very  life  .  . . 

Footsteps  passed,  and  voices;  but  the  sounds  scarcely  reached 
her  brain.  The  wind  freshened  sharply;  and  the  impact  of  two 
ripples  almost  capsized  her  chirdgh.  It  dipped  —  it  vanished  . . . 

With  a  low  sound  of  dismay  she  craned  forward;  lost  her  bal- 
ance, and  would  have  fallen  headlong  ...  but  that  masculine  fin- 
gers closed  on  her  arm  and  pulled  her  backward  —  just  in  time. 

"Roy I"  she  breathed,  without  turning  her  eyes  from  the 
water  — for  the  precious  flame  had  reappeared.    "Look,  there 

"But  what  of  yoM,  little  sister, had  not  I  stayed  to  watch  the 
fate  of  your  Dewali  lamp?" 

The  words  were  spoken  in  the  vernacular  —  and  not  m  the 
voice  of  Roy.  Startled,  she  drew  back  and  faced  a  man  of  less 
than  middle  height,  bareheaded,  wearing  the  orange  pink  draper- 
ies of  an  ascetic.  In  the  half  dark  she  could  just  discern  the  col- 
our and  the  necklace  of  carved  beads  that  hung  almost  to  his 

waist. 

"I  am  most  grateful,  guru-ji,"  ^  she  murmured  demurely,  also 
in  the  vernacular;  and  stood  so  —  shaken  a  little  by  her  fright; 
unreasonably  disappointed  that  it  was  not  Roy;  reheved,  that 
the  providential  intruder  chanced  to  be  a  holy  man.  "Will  you 
not  speed  my  brave  little  lamp  with  your  blessing?" 

His  smile  arrested  and  puzzled  her;  and  his  face,  more  clearly 
seen,  lacked  the  unmistakeable  stamp  of  the  ascetic. 

"You  are  not  less  brave  yourself,  sister,"  he  said,  "venturing 
thus  boldly  and  alone  ..."  •  •  j     j 

The  implication  annoyed  her;  but  anxious  not  to  be  nusjudged, 
she  answered  truthfully:  "I  am  not  as  those  others,  guru-ju^  I 
am  —  England-returned;  still  out  of  purdah  . . .  out  of  caste." 

He  levelled  his  eyes  at  her  with  awakened  interest;  then: 
"Frankness  for  frankness  is  fair  exchange,  sister.  I  am  no  guru; 
but  like  yourself,  England-returned;  caste  restored,  however. 
Dedicated  to  service  of  the  Mother  — " 

*  Holy  man. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  211 

It  was  her  turn  to  start  and  scrutinise  h\m  —  discreetly.  "  Yet 
you  make  pretence  of  holiness  —  ?  " 

"In  the  interests  of  the  Mother,"  he  interposed,  answering  the 
note  of  reproach,  "I  need  to  mix  freely  among  her  sons  —  and 
daughters.  These  clothes  are  passports  to  all,  and  wearing  them 
in  her  service  is  no  dishonour.  But  for  my  harmless  disguise,  I 
might  not  have  ventured  near  enough  to  save  you  from  making 
a  feast  for  the  muggers  —  just  for  this  superstition  of  Dewali  — 
not  ciured  by  all  the  wisdom  of  Oxford.  —  Was  it  Oxford?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  possible  — ?"  He  drew  nearer.  His  eyes  dwelt  on  her 
frankly,  almost  boldly.  "Am  I  addressing  the  accomplished 
daughter  of  Ram  Singh  Bahadur  —  ?" 

At  that  she  pulled  her  sari  forward,  turning  away  from  him. 
His  look  and  tone  repelled  her,  frightened  her;  yet  she  could  not' 
call  for  Roy,  who  was  playing  his  part  too  scrupulously  well. 

"Go — !  Leave  me ! "  she  commanded  desperately,  louder  than 
she  had  spoken  yet.  "I  am  not  ungrateful.  But  —  making 
pujah  ^  —  I  wish  to  be  alone  — " 

His  chuckling  laugh  sent  a  shiver  through  her. 

"  Why  these  airs  of  the  zenana  with  one  enlightened  —  like 
yourself . . .  ?  " 

He  broke  off  and  retreated  abruptly.  For  a  shadowy  figure 
had  sauntered  into  view. 

Aruna  sprang  towards  it  —  zenana  airs  forgotten.  "  O  Roy — ! " 

"Did  you  call,  Aruna?"  he  asked.  "Thought  I  heard  yoi\ 
This  fellow  bothering  you  —  ?  I'll  settle  him — "  Turning  he 
said  politely:  "My  cousin  is  here,  imder  my  escort,  to  make 
pujah,  guru-ji.   She  wishes  to  be  alone." 

"Your  cousin,  except  for  my  timely  intrusion,  would  by  this 
time  be  permanently  secure  from  interruption  —  in  the  belly  of 
a  mugger,"  retorted  the  supposed  ascetic  —  in  English. 

Roy  started  and  stared.  The  voice  was  tmmistakeable. 

"Chandranath!  Masquerading  as  a  saint?  Fom  are  no  gwrw." 

"And  you  are  no  Rajput.  You  also  appear  to  be  masquerading 
—  as  a  lover,  perhaps?  Quite  useless  trying  to  fool  me,  Sinclair, 

*  Prayer. 


212  FAR  TO  SEEK 

with  play-acting  —  about  cousins.  In  my  capacity  of  guru  I  feel 
compelled  to  warn  this  accomplished  young  lady  that  her  fine 
cavalier  is  only  a  sham  Rajput  of  British  extraction  ..." 

"SItam  —  curse  you!  I'm  a  genuine  Seesodia  —  on  one 
side  —  "  The  instant  he  had  spoken,  he  saw  his  folly. 

"  Oho  —  half-caste  only ! " 

An  oath  and  a  threatening  forward  move  impelled  the  speaker 
to  an  imdignified  step  backward.  Roy  cooled  a  little  at  that. 
The  fellow  was  beneath  contempt. 

"  I  am  of  highest  caste,  English  and  Indian.  I  admit  no  slur 
in  the  conjimction,  and  I  take  no  insults  from  any  man  — " 
He  made  another  forward  move,  piu"ely  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Chandranath  jerk  backward.  "If  my  cousin  was  in  danger,  we 
are  grateful  to  you.  But  I  told  you,  she  wishes  to  be  alone.  So 
I  must  ask  you  to  move  on  elsewhere." 

"Oh,  as  to  that — I  have  no  violent  predilection  for  your 
society." 

And,  as  he  sauntered  off,  with  an  elaborate  air  of  pleasing  no 
one  but  himself,  Roy  kept  pace  alongside  —  "  For  all  the  world," 
he  thought,  "like  Terry  edging  off  an  intruder.  Too  polite  to 
go  for  him;  but  quite  prepared  if  need  be!" 

When  they  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  building,  Chandra- 
nath fired  a  parting  shot.  "I  infer  you  came  here  fancying  you 
can  marry  her,  because  diluted  blood  of  Seesodias  runs  in  your 
veins.  But  here  in  India  you  will  find  forces  too  powerful  militat- 
ing against  it." 

But  Roy  was  not  to  be  goaded  again  into  letting  slip  his  self- 
control.  "The  men  of  my  stock,  British  and  Rajput,  are  not  in 
the  habit  of  discussing  their  women-folk  with  strangers,"  said 
he  —  and  flattered  himself  he  had  very  neatly  seciured  the  last 
word. 

As  for  Aruna  —  left  alone  —  she  leaned  again  on  the  low 
abutment,  but  the  hypnotic  spell  was  broken:  only  acute  anxiety 
remained.  For  the  lamp  of  her  life  had  made  scant  progress;  and 
now  she  was  aware  of  a  disturbance  in  the  water,  little  ominous 
whirlpools  not  caused  by  wind.   Presently  there  emerged  a  long 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  '  213 

shadow,  like  a  black  expanse  of  rock:  —  unmistakeably  a  mug- 
ger. And  in  that  moment  she  felt  exquisitely  grateful  to  the  hand 
that  had  seized  her  in  the  nick  of  time.  The  next  —  she  wrung 
her  own  together  with  a  low,  shivering  cry. 

For  as  the  brute  rose  into  fuller  view,  her  chirdgh  rose  with  it 
—  and  so  remained;  stranded  high  and  dry  somewhere  near  the 
horny  shoulder;  tilted  sideways,  she  judged  from  the  slope  of  the 
flame;  the  oil,  its  life-blood,  trickling  away.  And  as  the  mugger 
moved  leisurely  on,  in  the  wrong  direction,  breaking  up  the  gold 
network  of  reflections,  she  had  her  answer  —  or  no  answer.  The 
lamp  was  neither  wrecked  nor  shattered ;  but  it  would  never,  now, 
reach  the  farther  shore.  Mai  Lakshmi's  face  was  turned  away,  in 
simple  indifference,  from  the  plea  of  a  mere  waverer  between  two 
worlds,  who  ventured  to  set  her  lamp  on  the  waters,  not  so  much 
in  faith  as  in  a  mute  gesture  of  despair  . . . 

She  came  very  near  despair,  as  she  crouched  sobbing  there  in 
the  shadow  —  not  entirely  for  the  fate  of  her  lamp,  but  in  simple 
reaction  from  the  mingled  excitements  and  emotions  of  the  eve- 
ning .  . . 

It  was  only  a  few  minutes  —  though  it  seemed  an  age  —  be- 
fore she  felt  Roy's  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  heard  his  voice, 
troubled  and  tender  beneath  its  surface  note  of  command. 

"  Aruna  —  what  the  —  get  up.  Don't  cry  like  that  —  you 
mustn't—" 

She  obeyed  instinctively;  and  stood  there,  like  a  chidden  child, 
battling  with  her  sobs. 

"Where's  the  thing?  What's  happened?"  he  asked,  seeming 
to  disregard  her  effort  at  control. 

"There  —  over  there.  Look  . . .  the  mugger! " 

"Mugger?"  He  sighted  it  — "Well,  I'm  — the  thieving 
brute!"  Hiunour  lurked  in  his  voice  —  more  tonic  than  sym- 
pathy; yet  in  a  sense,  more  upsetting.  Her  tragedy  had  Its  vein 
of  the  ludicrous;  and  at  his  hint  of  it,  tears  trembled  into  laugh- 
ter; laughter  into  tears.  The  impact  unsteadied  her  afresh;  and 
she  covered  her  face,  again  shaken  with  sobs. 

"Aruna  —  my  dear  —  you  mustn't,  I  tell  you — "  More 
tenderness  now  than  command. 


214  FAR  TO  SEEK 

She  held  her  breath  —  pain  shot  through  with  sudden  ecstasy. 
For  in  speaking  he  had  laid  an  arm  round  her  shoulder;  just  sup- 
porting her  with  a  firm,  gentle  grasp  that  sent  tingling  shocks 
along  all  her  sensitised  nerves. 

"Listen,  Anina  —  and  don't  cry,"  he  said,  low  and  urgently. 
"No  answer  always  leaves  room  for  hope.  And  you  shall  have 
your  Dyan,  I  promise  you.  I  won't  come  back  without  him. 
I  can't  say  fairer  than  that.  So  now  — "  his  hand  closed  on  her 
shoulder.   "  Give  over  —  breaking  your  poor  heart! " 

Comforted  a  little,  she  uncovered  her  face.  "I  will  try.  Only  to- 
night— I  would  rather — not  the  Palace  dinner,  the  fireworks. 
I  would  rather  go  home  with  Miss  Mills  and  the  children—" 

"And  cry  your  eyes  out  all  alone.  And  spoil  the  whole  eve- 
ning —  for  us  both.  No,  you  don't.  Remember  —  you  are  Raj- 
putni:  not  to  be  hag-ridden  by  a  mere  chirdgh  and  a  thieving 
mugger.  No  more  tears  —  and  terrors.  Look  me  in  the  face  — 
and  promise." 

As  usual,  he  was  irresistible.  What  matter  Mai  Lakshmi's 
indilTerence  —  since  he  cared  so  much?  "Faithfully  —  I  prom- 
ise, Roy,"  she  said;  and,  for  proof  of  courage,  looked  straight  into 
his  eyes  —  that  seemed  mysteriously  to  hold  and  draw  her  into 
depths  beyond  depths. 

For  one  incredible  moment,  his  face  moved  a  little  nearer  to 
hers  —  paused,  as  if  irresolute,  and  withdrew. 

So  brief  was  the  instant,  so  slight  the  movement,  that  she 
almost  doubted  her  senses.  But  her  inmost  being  knew  —  and 
ached,  without  shyness  or  shame,  for  the  kiss  withheld  . . . 

"You've  the  grit  —  I  knew  it,"  Roy  said  at  last,  in  the  level 
voice  that  had  puzzled  her  earlier  in  the  evening:  and  his  hand 
slid  from  her  shoulder.  "Come  now  — we've  been  too  long. 
Thea  will  be  wondering  . . . 

He  turned;  and  she  moved  beside  him  walking  in  a  dream. 

"Did  you  say  much,  before  I  came?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause, 
"to  that  fellow  —  Chandranath? " 

"  I  spoke  a  little  —  thinking  him  a  guru  —  "  She  paused.  The 
name  woke  a  chord  of  memory.  "  Chandranath,"  she  repeated  — 
"that  is  the  name  they  said  — " 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  215 

"Who?"  Roy  asked  sharply,  coming  out  of  his  own  dream. 

"Mataji  and  the  widowed  aunt  — " 

"What  do  they  know  of  him?" 

"How  can  I  tell?  I  think  it  was  —  through  our  guru,  he  made 
offer  of  marriage  —  for  me;  wishing  for  an  educated  wife.  I  was 
wondering  —  could  it  be  the  same  —  ?  " 

"Well,  look  here,"  he  rounded  on  her,  suddenly  imperious. 
"  If  it  is  —  you  can  tell  them  I  won't  have  it.  Grandfather  would 
be  furious.  He  ought  to  know  —  and  Dydn.  Your  menfolk  don't 
seem  to  get  a  look-in." 

"Not  much  —  with  marrymg  arrangements.  That  is  for 
women  and  priests.  But  —  for  now,  I  am  safe,  with  Mrs. 
Lei^h  —  " 

"And  you'll  stay  safe  —  as  far  as  he's  concerned.  You  see, 
I  know  the  fellow.  He's  the  man  I  slanged  in  the  city  that  day. 
Besides  —  at  school  — " 

He  unfolded  the  tale  of  St.  Rupert's;  and  she  listened,  amazed. 
"So  you  needn't  worry  over  that,"  he  concluded,  in  his  kmd 
elder-brotherly  tone.  "As  for  your  poor  little  chirdgh,  for  good- 
ness* sake,  don't  let  it  get  on  your  nerves." 

She  sighed  —  knowing  it  would;  yet  longing  to  be  worthy  of 
him.  It  seemed  he  imderstood,  for  his  hand  closed  lightly  on 
her  arm. 

"That  won't  do  at  all!  If  you  feel  quavery  inside,  try  holding 
your  head  an  inch  higher.  Gesture's  half  the  battle  of  life." 

"Is  it?  I  never  thought  — "  she  murmured,  puzzled,  but  im- 
pressed. And  after  that,  things  somehow  seemed  easier  than  she 
had  thought  possible  over  there  by  the  tank. 

Secure  under  Thea's  wing,  she  drove  to  the  Palace,  where  they 
were  royally  entertained  by  an  unseen  host,  who  could  not  join 
them  at  table  without  imperilling  his  soul.  Later  on,  he  appeared 
—  grey-bearded,  courtly,  and  extensively  jewelled  —  supported 
by  Sir  Lakshman,  the  Prince,  and  a  few  privileged  notables; 
whereupon  they  all  migrated  to  the  Palace  roof  for  the  grand  dis- 
play of  fireworks  —  fitting  finale  to  the  Feast  of  Lights. 

Throughout  the  evening  Roy  was  seldom  absent  from  Aruna's 
side.  They  said  little,  but  bis  presence  wrapped  her  round  with 


2i6  FAR  TO  SEEK 

a  sense  of  companionship  more  intimate  than  she  had  yet  felt 
even  in  their  happiest  times  together.  While  rocket  after  rocket 
soared  and  curved  and  blossomed  in  mid-heaven,  her  gaze  re- 
verted persistently  to  the  outline  of  a  man's  head  and  shoulders 
silhouetted  against  the  sky  . . . 

Still  later  on,  when  he  bade  her  good-night,  in  the  Residency 
drawing-room,  she  moved  away  carrying  her  head  like  a  crowned 
queen.  It  certainly  made  her  feel  a  few  degrees  braver  than  when 
she  had  crouched  in  the  shadows  praying  vain  prayers  —  shed- 
ding vain  tears  . . . 

If  only  one  could  keep  it  up  —r  I 


Chapter  IX 

Thou  dost  besei  the  path  to  every  shrine; 

And  if  I  turn  from  but  one  sin,  I  turn  unto  a  smile  of  thine. 

Alice  Meyneu 

For  Roy  himself,  no  less  than  Aruna,  the  passing  of  those  golden 
October  weeks  had  been  an  experience  as  beautiful  as  it  was 
unique.  The  very  beauty  and  bewilderment  of  it  had  blinded 
him,  at  first,  to  the  underlying  danger  for  himself  and  her.  Be- 
wilderment sprang  from  an  eerie  sense  —  vivid  to  the  verge  of 
illusion  —  that  his  mother  was  with  him  again  in  the  person  of 
Aruna: — a  fancy  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  his  entire  knowl- 
edge of  Indian  womanhood  —  the  turns  of  thought  and  phrase, 
the  charm,  at  once  sensuous  and  spiritual  —  was  linked  indisso- 
lubly  with  her.  And  the  perilous  charm  had  penetrated  insid- 
iously deeper  than  he  knew.  By  the  time  he  realised  what  was 
happening,  the  spell  was  upon  him;  his  will  held  captive  in 
silken  meshes  he  had  not  the  heart  to  snap. 

As  often  as  not,  in  that  early  stage,  he  craved  sight  and  sound 
of  her  simply  because  she  wore  a  sari  and  carried  her  head  and 
moved  her  hands  just  so;  because  her  mere  presence  stirred  him 
with  a  thrill  that  blended  exquisite  pleasure,  exquisite  pain. 
There  were  times  he  would  contrive  to  be  alone  in  the  room  with 
her;  not  talking;  not  even  looking  at  her  —  because  her  face 
disturbed  the  illusion;  simply  letting  the  feel  of  her  presence 
ease  that  inner  ache  —  subdued,  not  stilled  —  for  the  mother 
who  had  remained  more  vitally  one  with  him  than  nine  mother? 
in  ten  are  able,  or  willing,  to  remain  with  their  grown-up  sons. 

Thea  Leigh,  watching  unobtrusively,  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  strange  dual  influence  at  work  in  him.  She  had  occasion- 
ally seen  him  with  his  mother;  and  had  gleaned  some  idea  of 
theur  unique  relation;  partly  from  Lance,  partly  from  her  intimate 


2i8  FAR  TO  SEEK 

link  with  her  own  Theo,  half  a  world  away;  nearly  eighteen  now, 
and  eager  to  join  up  before  all  was  over.  So  her  troubled  scrutiny 
was  tempered  with  a  measure  of  understanding.  Roy  had  always 
attracted  her.  And  now,  unmothered  —  the  wound  not  yet 
healed  —  she  metaphorically  gathered  him  to  her  heart;  would 
have  done  so  physically  without  hesitation,  but  that  Vincent  had 
his  dear  and  foolish  qualms  about  her  promiscuous  capacity  for 
affection.  But  Aruna  was  her  ewe  lamb  of  the  moment;  and  not 
even  Roy  must  be  allowed  to  make  things  harder  for  her  than  they 
were  already.  .  .  . 

So,  after  scouting  the  Delhi  idea  as  preposterous,  she  suddenly 
perceived  there  might  be  virtue  in  it  —  for  Aruna.  Possibly  it 
would  glorify  him  in  her  eyes:  but  it  would  remove  the  fatal 
charm  of  his  presence ;  give  her  a  chance  to  pull  up,  before  things 
had  gone  too  far.  Whereat,  being  Thea,  she  spun  round  unasham- 
edly, to  Roy's  secret  amusement  and  relief.  All  the  Desmond  in 
her  rose  to  the  adventure  of  it.  A  risk,  of  course;  but  there  must  be 
no  question  of  failure:  and  success  would  justify  all.  She  was  en- 
tirely at  his  service;  discussed  details  by  the  hour;  put  him  "on 
to  Vinx"  for  coaching  in  the  general  situation  —  underground 
sedition;  reformers,  true  and  false;  telling  arguments  for  the  re- 
claiming of  Dyan  Singh. 

To  crown  all  —  between  genuine  relief  and  genuine  affection 
—  she  impulsively  kissed  him  on  departure  under  Vincent's  very 
eyes. 

"Just  only  to  give  you  my  blessing!"  she  explained,  laughing 
and  blushing  like  a  girl  at  her  own  audacity.  "Words  are  the 
stupidest,  clumsy  things.  I'm  sure  life  would  be  happier  and  less 
complicated  if  we  only  had  the  sense  to  kiss  more  and  talk 
less—!" 

This  —  in  the  presence  of  Aruna  and  her  husband  and  her  six- 
year-old  son! 

Roy,  deeply  moved  and  a  little  overcome,  nodded  assent,  while 
Vincent  took  her  by  the  arms  and  gently  removed  her  from  fur- 
ther temptation. 

"Where  you'd  be,  Madam,  if  talking  was  rationed  — !" 

"I'd  take  it  out  in  kissing  —  Sir!"  she  retorted,  unabashed; 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  219 

while  Aruna  glanced  a  little  wistfully  at  Roy,  who  was  fondling 
Terry  and  talking  nonsense  to  Vernon.  For  the  boy  adored  him 
and  was  on  the  brink  of  tears. 

But  if  he  seemed  unheeding,  he  was  by  no  means  unaware.  He 
was  simply  fighting  his  own  battle  in  his  own  way;  incidentally, 
he  hoped,  helping  the  ghl  to  fight  hers.  For,  by  that  time,  he  had 
shaken  himself  almost  free  of  his  delicious  yet  disturbing  illusion, 
only  to  be  confronted  by  a  more  profoundly  disturbing  reality. 
Loyal  to  the  promise  tacitly  given,  he  had  simply  not  connected 
her  with  the  idea  of  marriage.  The  queer  thrill  of  her  presence 
was  for  him  quite  another  affair.  Not  until  that  night  of  wander- 
ing in  the  moonlight  had  it  struck  him,  with  a  faint  shock,  that 
she  might  be  mistaking  his  friendliness  for  —  something  more. 
That  contact  with  her  had  come  at  a  critical  moment  for  himself 
was  a  detail  he  failed  to  realise.  Beyond  the  sudden  bewildering 
sensations  that  prompted  his  headlong  proposal  to  Tara,  he  had 
not  felt  seriously  perturbed  by  girl  or  woman;  and,  in  the  past 
four  years,  life  had  been  filled  to  overflowing  with  other  things — 

That  he  should  love  Aruna,  deeply  and  dearly,  seemed  as 
simple  and  natural  as  loving  Tara.  But  to  fall  in  love  was  a  risk 
he  had  no  right  to  run,  either  for  himself  or  her.  Yet  in  truth  the 
risk  had  been  run  before  he  awoke  to  the  fact.  And  the  events 
and  emotions  of  Dewali-night  had  drawn  them  irresistibly,  dan- 
gerously closer  together.  For  the  racial  ferment  had  been  strong 
in  him,  as  in  her.  And  the  darkness,  the  subtle  influence  of  his 
Indian  dress  —  her  tears  —  her  danger!  How  could  any  man, 
frankly  loving  her,  not  be  carried  a  little  out  of  himself?  That 
overmastering  impulse  to  kiss  her  had  startlingly  revealed  the 
true  forces  at  work. 

After  all  that,  what  could  he  do  but  sharply  apply  the  curb 
and  remove  himself  —  for  a  time  —  in  the  devout  hope  that 
'things'  had  not  gone  too  far?  He  had  not  the  assurance  to  sup- 
pose she  was  already  in  love  with  him:  but  patently  the  risk  was 
there. 

So  —  like  Thea  —  he  had  come  to  see  the  Delhi  inspiration  in 
a  new  and  surprising  light.  Setting  forth  in  search  of  Dydn,  he 
was,  in  effect,  running  away  from  himself  —  and  Aruna,  no  less. 


220  FAR  TO  SEEK 

If  not  actually  in  love,  he  very  soon  would  be  —  did  he  dare  to 
let  himself  go. 

And  why  not  —  why  not?  The  old,  unreasoning  rebellion 
stirred  in  him  afresh.  His  mother  being  gone,  temptation 
tugged  the  harder.  Home,  without  the  Indian  element,  was  al- 
most unthinkable.  If  only  he  could  take  back  Aruna!  But  for 
him  there  could  be  no  'if.'  He  had  tacitly  given  his  word  —  to 
her.  And  in  any  case  there  was  his  father  —  the  Sinclair  heritage. 
So  all  his  fine  dreams  of  helping  Aruna  amounted  to  this  — 
that  it  was  he  who  might  be  driven  in  the  end  to  hurt  her  more 
than  any  of  them.  Life,  that  looked  such  a  straight-ahead  busi- 
ness for  most  people,  seemed  to  bristle  with  pitfalls  and  obstacles 
for  him;  all  on  account  of  the  double  heritage  that  was  at  once 
his  pride,  his  inspiration,  and  his  stone  of  stumbling. 

Endless  wakeful  hours  of  the  night  journey  were  peopled  with 
thoughts  and  visions  of  Aruna  —  her  pansy  face  and  velvet-soft 
eyes,  now  flashing  delicate  raillery,  now  lifted  in  troubled  appeal. 
A  rainbow  creature  —  that  was  the  charm  of  her.  Not  beautiful 
—  he  thanked  his  stars;  smce  his  weakness  for  beauty  amounted 
to  a  snare;  but  attractive  —  perilously  so.  For,  in  her  case,  the 
very  element  that  drew  him  was  the  barrier  that  held  them  apart. 
The  irony  of  it! 

Was  she  lying  awake,  too,  poor  child  —  missmg  him  a  little? 
Would  she  marry  an  Indian  —  ever?  Would  she  turn  her  back 
on  India  —  even  for  him?  Unanswerable  questions  hemmed  her 
in.  Could  she  even  answer  them  herself?  Too  well  he  imderstood 
how  the  scales  of  her  nature  hung  balanced  between  conflicting 
influences.  As  he  was,  raciaUy,  so  was  she,  spiritually,  a  divided 
being;  yet,  in  spite  of  waverings,  Rajputni  at  the  core  —  with 
all  that  word  impUes  to  those  who  know.  If  she  lacked  his  moth- 
er's high,  sustained  courage,  her  flashes  of  spirit  shone  out  the 
brighter  for  her  lapses  into  womanly  weakness  —  as  in  that 
poignant  moment  by  the  tank,  which  had  so  nearly  upset  his 
own  equilibrium.  Vividly  recalling  that  moment,  it  hurt  acutely 
to  realise  that  weeks  might  pass  before  he  could  see  her  again. 
No  denying  he  wanted  her;  felt  lost  without  her.  The  coveted 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  221 

Delhi  adventure  seemed  suddenly  a  very  lonely  affair;  not  even 
a  clear  inner  sense  of  his  mother's  presence  to  bear  him  company. 
No  dreams  lately;  no  faint  mystical  intimation  of  her  nearness, 
since  the  wonderful  hour  with  his  grandfather.  Only  in  the  form 
of  that  strange  and  lovely  illusion  had  she  seemed  vitally  near 
him  since  he  left  Chitor. 

Graceless  ingratitude — that  'only.'  For  now,  looking  back,  he 
clearly  saw  how  the  beauty  and  bewilderment  of  that  early  phase, 
so  mysteriously  blending  Aruna  with  herself,  had  held  his  emo- 
tions in  check;  lifted  them,  purified  them;  had  saved  him,  for  all 
he  knew,  from  headlong  surrender  to  an  overwhelming  passion 
that  might  conceivably  have  swept  everything  before  it.  Pure 
fantasy  —  perhaps.  But  he  felt  no  inclination  to  argue  out  the 
unarguable.  He  preferred  simply  unquestioningly  to  believe 
that,  under  God,  he  owed  his  salvation  to  her.  And  after  all  — 
take  it  spiritually  or  psychologically  —  that  was,  in  effect,  the 
truth... 

Towards  morning,  utter  weariness  lulled  him  into  a  troubled 
sleep  —  not  for  long.  He  awoke,  chilled  and  heavy-eyed,  to  find 
the  unheeded  loveliness  of  a  lemon-yellow  dawn  stealing  over  the 
blank  immensity  of  earth  and  sky. 

In  a  moment  he  was  up,  stretching  cramped  limbs,  thanking 
goodness  for  a  carriage  to  himself,  leaning  out  and  drinking  huge 
draughts  of  crisp,  clean  air,  fragrant  with  the  ghost  of  a  whiff  of 
wood  smoke  —  the  inimitable  air  of  a  Punjab  autumn  morning. 


Chapter  X 

The  tongue  is  a  Utile  member,  and  boasteth  great  things.  . . . 
The  tongue  can  no  man  tame;  it  is  an  unruly  evil,  full  of  deadly  poison. 

St.  James,  ni,  5,  8 

Roy  spent  ten  days  in  Delhi  —  lodging  with  one  Krishna  Lai,  a 
jewel  merchant  of  high  standing,  well  known  to  Sir  Lakshman  — 
and  never  a  word  or  a  sight  of  Dyan  Singh.  The  need  for  con- 
stant precautions  hampered  him  not  a  little;  but  if  the  needle 
he  sought  was  in  this  particular  haystack,  he  would  find  it  yet. 

Meanwhile,  at  every  turn  he  was  imbibing  first  impressions,  a 
sufficiently  enthralling  occupation  —  in  Delhi,  of  all  places  on 
earth:  —  Delhi,  mistress  of  many  victors;  very  woman,  in  that 
she  3delds  to  conquer;  and,  after  centuries  of  romance  and  trag- 
edy, remains,  in  essence,  unconquered  still.  The  old  saying,  'Who 
holds  Delhi,  holds  India,'  has  its  dark  contradiction  in  the  un- 
written belief  that  no  alien  ruler,  enthroned  at  Delhi,  shall  en- 
dure. Hence  the  dismay  of  many  loyal  Indians  when  the 
British  Government  deserted  Calcutta  for  the  Queen  of  the 
North.  And  here,  already,  were  her  endless  secretive  byways 
rivalling  Calcutta  suburbs  as  hornet-nests  of  sedition  and 
intrigue. 

Roy  was  to  grow  painfully  familiar  with  these  before  his  search 
ended.  But  the  city's  pandemonium  of  composite  noises  and 
composite  smells  was  offset  by  the  splendid  remnants  of  Imperial 
Delhi:  —  the  Pearl  Mosque,  a  dream  in  marble,  dazzling  against 
the  blue:  inlaid  columns  of  the  Dewan-i-khas  ^- every  leaf 
wrought  in  jade  or  malachite,  every  petal  a  precious  stone;  swell- 
ing domes  and  rose-pink  minarets  of  the  Jumna  Musjid  rising 
superbly  from  a  network  of  narrow  streets  and  shabby,  toppHng 
houses.  For,  in  India,  the  sordid  and  stately  rub  shoulders  with 
sublime  disregard  for  effect.  In  the  cool  aloofness  of  tombs  and 
temples,  or  among  crumbling  fragments  of  them  on  the  plain,  or 
away  beyond  the  battered  Kashmir  Gate  —  ground  sacred  to 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  223 

heroic  memories  —  he  could  wander  at  will  for  hours,  isolated  in 
body  and  spirit,  yet  strangely  content .  .  . 

And  there  was  yet  a  third  Delhi,  hard  by  these  two,  yet  curi- 
ously aloof:  official,  Anglo-Indian  Delhi,  of  bungalows  and  clubs 
and  painfully  new  Government  buildings.  Little  scope  here  for 
imaginative  excursions,  but  much  scope  for  thought  in  the  queer 
sensation  that  beset  him  of  seeing  his  father's  people,  as  it  were, 
through  his  mother's  eyes. 

New  as  he  was  to  Anglo-Indian  life,  these  glimpses  from  the 
outskirts  were  sufficiently  illuminating.  Once  he  was  present  in 
the  crowd  at  a  big  Gymkhana;  and  more  than  once  he  strolled 
through  the  Club  gardens,  where  social  Delhi  pursued  tennis 
balls  and  shuttle-cocks — gravely,  as  if  life  hung  on  the  issue;  or 
gaily,  with  gusts  of  laughter  and  chaff,  often  noisier  than  need 
be.  And  he  saw  them  all,  now,  from  a  new  angle  of  \dsion.  Dis- 
creetly aloof,  he  observed,  in  passing,  the  complete  free-and-easi- 
ness  of  the  modern  maiden  with  her  modem  cavalier;  personali- 
ties flying;  likewise  legs  and  arms;  a  banter- wrangle  interlude 
over  a  tennis  racquet;  ffight  and  pursuit  of  the  offending  maiden, 
punctuated  with  shrieks,  culminating  in  collapse  and  undignified 
surrender:  while  a  pair  of  club  peons  —  also  discreetly  aloof  — 
exchanged  remarks  whose  import  would  have  enraged  the  un- 
suspecting pair.  Roy  knew  very  well  they  never  gave  the  matter 
a  thought.  They  were  simply  'rotting'  in  the  approved  style 
of  to-day.  But,  seen  from  the  Eastern  standpoint,  the  trivial 
incident  troubled  him.  It  recalled  a  chance  remark  of  his  grand- 
father's: "With  only  a  little  more  decorum  and  seriousness  in 
their  way  of  life  out  here,  they  could  do  far  more  to  promote 
good  understanding  socially  between  us  all,  than  by  making  pre- 
mature 'reforms'  or  tilting  at  barriers  arising  from  opposite  kinds 
of  civilisation." 

Here  was  matter  for  the  novel  —  or  novels  —  to  be  born  of  his 
errantry:  —  the  'fruit  of  his  life'  that  she  had  so  longed  to  hold  in 
her  hands.  Were  she  only  at  Home  now,  what  letters-without- 
end  he  would  be  pouring  out  to  her!  What  letters  he  could 
have  poured  out  to  Aruna  —  did  conscience  permit.  He  allowed 
himself  two,  in  the  course  of  ten  days;  and  the  spirit  moved  him, 


224  FAR  TO  SEEK 

after  long  abstention,  to  indulge  in  a  rambling  screed  to  Tara  tell- 
ing of  his  quest;  revealing  more  than  he  quite  realised  of  the 
inner  stress  he  was  trying  to  ignore.  The  quest,  he  emphasised, 
was  a  private  affair,  confided  to  her  only  because  he  knew  she 
would  understand.  It  hurt  more  than  he  could  admit  to  feel 
how  completely  his  father  would  not  understand  his  present 
turmoil  of  heart  and  brain  .  .  . 

Isolated  thus,  with  his  hidden,  thwarted  emotion,  there  re- 
sulted a  literary  blossoming,  the  most  spontaneous  and  satisfying 
since  his  slow  struggle  up  from  the  depths.  Alone  at  night,  and  in 
the  clear,  keen  dawns,  he  wrote  and  wrote  and  wrote,  as  a  thirsty 
man  drinks  after  a  desert  march:  —  poems  chiefly;  sketches  and 
impressions;  his  dearest  theme  the  troubled  spirit  of  India  —  or 
was  it  the  spirit  of  Aruna?  —  poised  between  crescent  light  and 
deepening  shadow,  looking  for  sane,  clear  guidance  —  and  find- 
ing none.  A  prose  sketch,  in  this  vein,  stood  out  from  the  rest;  a 
fragment  of  his  soul,  too  intimately  self-revealing  for  the  general 
gaze:  no  uncommon  dilemma  for  an  artist,  precisely  when  his 
work  is  most  intrinsically  true.  Had  he  followed  the  natural  urge 
of  his  heart,  he  would  have  sent  it  to  Aruna.  As  it  was,  he  de- 
cided to  treasure  it  a  Uttle  longer  for  himself  alone. 

Meantime  Dyan  — half  forgotten  —  suddenly  emerged.  It 
was  at  a  meeting  —  exclusively  religious  and  philosophical;  but 
the  police  had  wind  of  it;  and  a  friendly  inspector  mentioned  it 
to  Krishna  Lai.  The  chief  speaker  would  be  a  Swami  of  impec- 
cable sanctity.  "But  if  you  have  a  sensitive  palate,  you  will 
doubtless  detect  a  spice  of  political  powder  under  the  jam  of 
religion!"  quoth  Krishna  Lai,  who  was  a  man  of  humour  and  no 
friend  of  sedition. 

"Thanks  for  the  hint,"  said  Roy  — and  groaned  in  spirit. 
Meetings,  at  best,  were  the  abomination  of  desolation;  and  his 
soul  was  sick  of  the  Indian  variety.  For  the  'silent  East*  is 
never  happier  than  when  it  is  talking  at  immense  length;  de- 
nouncing, inaugurating,  promoting;  and  a  prolonged  dose  of  it 
stirred  in  Roy  a  positive  craving  for  his  own  kind;  for  men  who 
shot  remarks  at  each  other  in  'straight-flung  words  and  true.' 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  225 

But  no  stone  must  be  left  unturned.  So  he  went;  —  guided  by 
the  friendly  policeman,  who  knew  him  for  a  sahib  bent  on  some 
personal  quest. 

Their  search  ended  in  a  windowless  inner  room;  packed  to 
suffocation;  heavy  with  attar  of  rose,  kerosene,  and  human 
bodies;  and  Roy  as  usual  clung  to  a  doorway  that  offered  occa- 
sional respite. 

The  Swami  was  already  in  full  flow:  —  a  wraith  of  a  man  in 
a  salmon-coloured  garment;  his  eyes,  deep  in  their  sockets, 
gleaming  like  black  diamonds.  And  he  was  holding  his  audience 
spellbound: — Hindus  of  every  calling;  students  in  abundance;  a 
sprinkling  of  Sikhs  and  Dogras  from  the  lines.  Some  form  of 
hypnotism  —  was  it?  Perhaps.  Even  Roy  could  not  listen  un- 
moved, when  the  spirit  shook  the  frail  creature  like  a  gust  of 
wind  and  the  hollow  chest  notes  vibrated  with  appeal  or  com- 
mand. Such  men  —  and  India  is  full  of  them  —  are  spiritual 
dynamos.  Who  can  calculate  their  effect  on  an  emotional  race? 
And  they  no  longer  confine  their  influence  to  things  spiritual. 
They,  too,  have  caught  the  modem  disease  of  politics  for  the 
million.  And  the  supreme  appeal  is  to  youth  —  plastic  and 
impressionable,  aflame  with  fervours  of  the  blood  that  can  be 
conjured,  by  heady  words,  into  fervours  infinitely  more  danger- 
ous to  themselves  and  their  country. 

In  an  atmosphere  dense  with  spilled  kerosene,  with  over- 
breathed  air  and  over-charged  emotion,  that  appeal  rang  out  like 
a  trumpet  blast. 

"It  is  to  youth  the  divine  message  has  come  in  all  ages;  the 
call  to  martyrdom,  and  dedication.  'Suffer  little  children  to 
come  unto  me,'  said  the  inspired  Founder  of  Christianity.  So 
also  I  say,  in  tliis  time  of  revival,  suffer  the  young  to  fling  them- 
selves into  the  arms  of  the  Mother.  My  sons,  she  cries,  go  back 
to  the  Vedas.  You  will  find  all  wisdom  there.  Reject  this  alien 
gift  —  however  finely  gilded  —  of  a  civilisation  inferior  to  your 
own.  Hindu  Rishis  were  old  in  wisdom  when  these  were  still 
unclothed  savages  coloured  with  blue  paint.  Shall  the  sa- 
cred Motherland  be  inoculated  with  Western  poison?  It  is  for 
the  young  to  decide  —  to  act.  Nerve  your  arms  with  valour. 


226  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Bring  offerings  acceptable  to  the  shrine  of  Mai  Kdli.  Does  she 
demand  a  sheep?  A  buffalo?  A  cocoanut?  Ask  yourselves.  The 
answer  is  written  in  your  hearts  — " 

His  emaciated  arms  shot  up  and  outward  in  a  gesture  the  more 
impressive  because  it  was  maintained.  For  a  prolonged  moment 
the  holy  one  seemed  to  hover  above  his  audience  —  as  it  were  an 
eagle  poised  on  outspread  wings  .  .  . 

Roy  came  to  himself  with  a  start.  His  friend  the  policeman 
had  plucked  his  sleeve;  and  they  retreated  a  step  or  two  through 
the  open  door. 

"The  sahib  heard?"  queried  Man  Singh  in  cautious  under- 
tone. 

"There's  hearing  —  and  hearing,"  said  Roy,  aware  of  some 
cryptic  message  given  and  understood.  "I  take  it  they  all  know 
what  he's  driving  at." 

"True  talk.  They  know.  But  he  has  not  said.  Therefore  he 
goes  in  safety  when  he  should  be  picking  oakum  in  the  jail 
Khana.  They  are  cunning  as  serpents,  these  holy  ones." 

"They  have  the  gift  of  tongues,"  said  Roy.  "May  one  ask 
what  is  Mai  Kali's  special  taste  in  sacrifices?" 

The  Sikh  gave  him  an  odd  look.  "The  blood  of  white  goats 
—  meaning  sahibs,  Hazur."  —  Roy's  'click'  was  Oriental  to  a 
nicety.  —  "'A  white  goat  for  Kdli'  is  an  old  Bengali  catchword. 
Hark  how  their  tongues  wag.  But  there  is  still  another  —  highly 
esteemed  by  the  student-Wg;  one  who  can  skilfully  flavour  a 
pillau  of  learned  talk,  as  the  Swami  can  flavour  a  pillau  of  re- 
ligion. Where  he  comes,  there  will  be  trouble  afterwards,  and 
arrests.  But  no  Sri  Chandranath.  He  is  off  making  trouble 
elsewhere." 

"  Chandranath  —  here?  "  Roy's  heart  gave  a  jerk,  half  excite- 
ment, half  apprehension. 

"Your  Honour  has  heard  the  man?" 

"No.  I'm  glad  of  the  chance." 

As  they  entered,  the  second  speaker  stepped  on  to  the  plat- 
form .  . . 

True  talk,  indeed!  There  stood  the  boy  who  had  whimpered 
under  Scab  Major's  bullying,  in  the  dark  coat  and  turban  of  the 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  227 

educated  Indian;  his  back  half  turned,  in  confidential  talk  with 
a  friend,  who  had  set  a  carafe  and  tumbler  ready  to  hand.  The 
light  of  a  wall  lamp  shone  fuU  on  the  young  man's  face  —  dean- 
cut,  handsome,  unmistakeable  . . . 

Dydnt  Dyan  — and  Chandranath!  It  was  the  conjunction 
that  confounded  Roy  and  tinged  elation  with  dismay.  He  could 
hardly  contain  himself  till  Dyan  joined  the  audience;  standing  a 
little  apart;  not  taking  a  seat.  Something  in  his  face  reminded 
Roy  of  the  strained  fervour  in  his  letter  to  Aruna.  Carefully 
careless,  he  edged  his  way  through  the  outer  fringe  of  the 
audience,  and  volunteered  a  remark  or  two  in  Hindustani. 
"A  full  meeting,  brother.  Your  friend  speaks  well?" 
Dyan  turned  with  a  start.  "Where  are  you  from,  that  you 
have  not  heard  him?"  He  scrutinised  Roy's  appearance.  "A 
hill  man— ?" 

Roy  edged  nearer  and  spoke  in  English  under  his  breath. 
"Dyan  —  look  at  me.  Don't  make  a  scene.  I  am  Roy  —  from 
Jaipur." 

In  spite  of  the  warning,  Dydn  drew  back  sharply.  "Whai  are 
you  here  for?  Spying?" 

"No.  Hoping  to  find  you.  Because  —  I  care;  and  Aruna 
cares  —  " 

"Better  to  care  less  and  understand  more,"  Dydn  muttered 
brusquely.  "No  time  for  talk  now.  Listen.  You  may  learn  a 
few  things  Oxford  could  not  teach." 

The  implied  sneer  enraged  Roy;  but  listen  he  must,  perforce: 
and  in  the  space  of  half  an  hour  he  learnt  a  good  deal  about 
Chandranath  and  the  mentality  of  his  type. 

To  the  outer  ear  he  was  propounding  the  popular  modem 
doctrine  of  'Yoga  by  action.'  To  the  inner  ear  he  was  extolling 
passion  and  rebellion  in  terms  of  a  creed  that  enjoins  detach- 
ment from  both;  inciting  to  political  murder,  under  sanction  of 
the  divine  dictum,  'Who  kills  the  body  kills  naught.  Thy  con- 
cern is  with  action  alone,  never  with  results.'  And  his  heady 
flights  of  rhetoric,  like  those  of  the  Swami,  were  frankly  aimed 
at  the  scores  of  half-fledged  youths  who  hung  upon  his  utter- 
ance. 


228  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"What  are  the  first  words  of  the  young  child?  What  are  the 
first  words  in  your  own  hearts?"  he  cried,  indicating  that  organ 
with  a  dramatic  forefinger.  "  */  want! '  It  is  the  passionate  cry  of 
youth.  By  indomitably  uttering  it,  he  can  dislodge  mountains 
into  the  sea.  And  in  India  to-day  there  exist  mountains  neces- 
sary to  be  hurled  into  the  sea!"  His  significant  pause  was  not 
lost  on  his  hearers  —  or  on  Roy.  "'Many-branched  and  endless 
are  the  thoughts  of  the  irresolute.'  But  to  him  who  cries  ar- 
dently, */  wc«/,'  there  is  no  impediment,  except  paucity  of  cour- 
age to  snatch  the  seductive  object.  Deaf  to  the  anaemic  whisper 
of  compunction,  remembering  that  sin  taints  only  the  weak,  he 
will  be  translated  to  that  dizzy  eminence  where  right  and  wrong, 
truth  and  untruth,  become  as  pigmies,  hardly  discerned  by  the 
naked  eye.  There  dwells  Kali  —  the  shameless  and  pitiless;  and 
believing  our  country  that  deity  —  incarnate  —  her  needs  must 
be  our  gods.  *  Her  image  make  we  in  temple  after  temple — Bande 
Mataram!'"  The  invocation  was  flung  back  to  him  in  a  ragged 
shout.  Here  and  there  a  student  leapt  to  his  feet  brandishing  a 
clenched  fist.  "Compose  your  laudable  intoxication,  brothers. 
I  do  not  say,  'Be  violent.'  There  is  a  necromancy  of  the  spirit 
more  potent  than  weapons  of  the  flesh:  —  the  delusion  of  irre- 
sistible suggestion  that  will  conquer  even  truth  itself  .  .  ." 

Abstraction  piled  on  abstraction;  perversion  on  perversion;  and 
that  deluded  crowd  plamly  swallowing  it  all  as  gospel  truth  — ! 
To  Roy  the  whole  exhibition  was  purely  disgustful;  as  if  the  man 
had  emptied  a  dustbin  under  his  aristocratic  nose.  Once  or  twice 
he  glanced  covertly  at  Dyan,  standing  beside  him;  at  the  strained 
intentness  of  his  face,  the  nervous,  clenched  hand.  Was  this  the 
same  Dyan  who  had  ridden  and  argued  and  read  'Greats'  with 
him  only  four  years  ago  —  this  hypnotised  being  who  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  his  existence  —  ? 

Thank  God!  At  last  it  was  over!  But  while  applause  hummed 
and  fluttered,  there  sprang  on  to  the  platform,  unannounced,  a 
wiry,  keen-faced  man,  with  the  parted  beard  of  a  Silch. 

"Brothers  —  I  demand  a  hearing!"  he  cried  aloud;  "I  who 
was  formerly  hater  of  the  British,  preaching  all  manner  of  vio- 
lence —  I  have  been  three  years  detained  in  Germany;  and  I 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  229 

come  back  now,  with  my  eyes  open,  to  say  all  over  India  — 
cease  your  fool's  talk  about  self-government  and  tossing  moun- 
tains into  the  sea!  Cease  making  yourselves  drunk  with  words 
and  waving  your  Vedic  flags,  and  stand  by  the  British  —  your 
true  friends  —  " 

At  that,  cries  and  counter-cries  drowned  his  voice.  Books 
were  hurled,  no  other  weapon  being  handy;  and  Roy  noted,  with 
amused  contempt,  that  Chandranath  hastily  disappeared  from 
view. 

The  Sikh  laughed  in  the  face  of  their  opposition.  Dexterously 
catching  a  book,  he  hurled  it  back;  and  once  more  made  his 
strong  voice  heard  above  the  clamour.  "Fools  —  and  sheep! 
You  may  stop  your  ears  now.  In  the  end  I  will  make  you 
hear—" 

Shouted  down  again,  he  vanished  through  a  side  exit;  and,  in 
the  turmoil  that  followed,  Roy's  hand  closed  securely  on  Dydn's 
arm.  Throughout  the  stormy  interlude  he  had  stood  rigidly 
still:  a  pained,  puzzled  frown  contracting  his  brows.  Yet  it  was 
plain  he  would  have  slipped  away  without  a  word  but  for  Roy's 
detaining  grip. 

"You  don't  go  running  off  —  now  I've  found  you,"  said  he 
good-humouredly.  "I've  things  to  say.  Come  along  to  my  place 
and  hear  them." 

Dyan  jerked  his  imprisoned  arm.  "Very  sorry.  I  have  —  im- 
portant duties." 

"To-morrow  night,  then?  I'm  lodging  with  Krishna  Lai.  And 
—  look  here,  don't  mention  me  to  your  friend  the  philosopher  I 
I  know  more  about  him  than  you  might  suppose.  If  you  still  care 
a  damn  for  me  —  and  the  others  —  do  what  I  ask  —  and  keep 
your  mouth  shut  — " 

Dyan's  frown  was  hostile;  but  his  voice  was  low  and  troubled. 
"For  God's  sake,  leave  me  alone,  Roy.  Of  course  —  I  care.  But 
that  kind  of  caring  is  carnal  weakness.  We  who  are  dedicated 
must  rise  above  such  weakness,  above  pity  and  slave-morality, 
giving  all  to  the  Mother  — " 

"Dyan  —  have  you  forgotten  —  my  mother?"  Roy  pressed 
his  advantage  in  the  same  low  tone. 


230  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"No.  Impossible.  She  was  Devi  —  Goddess;  loveliest  and 
kindest  — " 

"  Well,  in  her  name,  I  ask  you  —  come  to-morrow  evening  and 
have  a  talk." 

Dyan  was  silent;  then,  for  the  first  time,  he  looked  Roy  straight 
in  the  eyes.  "In  her  name  —  I  will  come.  Now  let  me  go." 

Roy  let  him  go.  He  had  acliieved  little  enough.  But  for  a 
start  it  was  'not  so  bad.' 


Chapter  XI 

When  we  have  fallen  through  storey  after  storey  of  our  vanity  and  aspiration,  it 
is  then  that  we  begin  to  measure  the  stature  of  our  friends. 

R.  L.  S. 

Next  evening  Dyan  arrived.  He  stayed  for  an  hour  and  did 
most  of  the  talking.  But  his  unnatural  volubility  suggested 
disturbance  deep  down. 

Only  once  Roy  had  a  glimpse  of  the  true  Dydn,  when  he  pre- 
sented Aruna's  prasad,  consecrated  by  her  touch.  In  silence 
Dyan  set  it  on  the  table;  and  reverently  touched,  with  his  fin- 
ger-tips, first  the  small  parcel,  then  his  own  forehead. 

"  Anina  —  sister,"  he  said  on  an  under  breath.  But  he  would 
not  be  drawn  into  talking  of  her,  of  his  grandfather,  or  of  home 
affairs:  and  his  abrupt  departure  left  Roy  with  a  maddening 
sense  of  frustration. 

He  lay  awake  half  the  night;  and  reached  certain  conclusions 
that  atoned  for  a  violent  headache  next  morning.  First  and 
best  —  Dyan  was  not  a  genuine  convert.  All  this  ferment  and 
froth  did  not  spell  reasoned  conviction.  He  was  sunply  en- 
snared; his  finer  nature  warped  by  the  'delusion  of  irresistible 
suggestion,'  deadlier  than  any  weapon  of  war.  His  fanatical 
loyalty  savoured  of  obsession.  So  much  the  better.  An  obses- 
sion could  be  pricked  like  an  air-ball  with  the  right  weapon  at 
the  right  moment.  That,  as  Roy  saw  it,  was  his  task: — in  effect, 
a  ghostly  duel  between  himself  and  Chandranath  for  the  soul  of 
Dydn  Singh;  and  the  fate  of  Aruna  virtually  hung  on  the  issue. 

Should  he  succeed,  Chandranath  would  doubtless  guess  at  his 
share  in  Dydn's  defection;  and  few  men  care  about  courting  the 
enmity  of  the  unscrupulous.  That  is  the  secret  power  behind 
the  forces  of  anarchy,  above  all  in  India,  where  social  and  spir- 
itual boycott  can  virtually  slay  a  man  without  shedding  of 
blood.  For  himself,  Roy  decided,  the  game  was  worth  the  can- 
dle.   The  question  remained  —  how  far  that  natural  shrinking 


232  FAR  TO  SEEK 

might  affect  Dydn?  And  again  —  how  much  did  he  know  of 
Chandranath's  designs  on  Aruna? 

Roy  decided  to  spring  the  truth  on  him  next  time  and  note 
the  effect.  Dyan  had  said  he  would  come  again  one  evening; 
and  —  sooner  than  Roy  expected  —  he  came.  Again  he  was 
abnormally  voluble,  as  if  holding  his  cousin  at  arm's  length  by 
italicising  his  own  fanatical  fervour,  till  Roy's  impatience  sub- 
sided into  weariness  and  he  palpably  stifled  a  yawn. 

Dyan,  detecting  him,  stopped  dead,  with  a  pained,  puzzled 
look  that  went  to  Roy's  heart.  For  he  loved  the  real  Dyan,  even 
while  he  was  bored  to  extinction  with  the  semi-religious  verbiage 
that  poured  from  him  like  water  from  a  jug. 

"Awfully  sorry,"  he  apologised  frankly.  "But  I've  been  over- 
dosed with  that  sort  of  stuff  lately;  and  I'm  damned  if  I  can 
swallow  it  like  you  do.  Yet  I'm  dead  keen  for  India  to  have  the 
best,  all  round,  that  she's  capable  of  digesting  —  yet.  So's  Grand- 
father.   You  can't  deny  it." 

Dyan  frowned  irritably.  "Grandfather's  prejudiced  and  old- 
fashioned." 

"He's  longer-sighted  than  most  of  your  voluble  friends.  He 
doesn't  rhapsodise.  He  knows.  —  But  I'm  not  old-fasliioned. 
Nor  is  Aruna." 

"No,  poor  child;  only  England-infatuated.  She  is  unwise  not 
taking  this  chance  of  an  educated  husband  — " 

"And  such  a  husband!"  Roy  struck  in  so  sharply  that  Dydn 
stared  open-mouthed. 

"How  the  devil  can  you  know?" 

"And  how  the  devil  can  you  not  know,"  countered  Roy, 
"when  it's  your  precious  paragon  —  Chandranath?" 

He  scored  his  point  clean  and  true.  "Chandranath!"  Dydn 
echoed  blankly,  staring  into  the  fire. 

Roy  said  nothing;  simply  let  the  fact  sink  in.  Then,  having 
dealt  the  blow,  he  proffered  a  crumb  of  consolation.  "Perhaps  he 
prefers  to  say  nothing  till  he's  pulled  it  off.  But  I  warn  you, 
if  he  persists,  I  shall  put  every  feasible  spoke  in  his  wheel." 

Dyan  faced  him  squarely.  "You  seem  very  intimate  with  our 
/•'^airs.  Who  told  you  this?" 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  233 

"  Amna  —  herself." 

"You  are  also  very  intimate  —  with  her." 

"As  she  has  lost  her  brother,  her  natural  protector,  I  do 
what  I  can  —  to  make  up." 

Dyan  winced  and  stole  a  look  at  him.  "Why  not  make  up  for 
still  greater  lack  —  and  marry  her  yourself?" 

It  was  he  who  hit  the  mark  this  time.  Roy's  blood  tingled;  but 
voice  and  eyes  were  under  control.  "I've  only  been  there  a  few 
weeks.  The  question  has  not  arisen." 

"Your  true  meaning  is  —  it  could  not  arise.  They  were  glad 
enough  for  her  service  in  England;  but  whatever  her  service, 
or  her  loving,  she  must  not  marry  an  Englishman,  even  with  the 
blood  of  India  in  his  veins.  That  is  our  reward  —  both  — " 

It  was  the  fierce  bitter  Dydn  of  that  long-ago  afternoon  in 
New  College  Lane.  But  Roy  was  too  angry  on  his  own  account 
to  heed.  He  rose  abruptly. 

"I'll  trouble  you  not  to  talk  Uke  that." 

Dyan  rose  also,  confronting  him.  "I  must  say  what  is  in  mind 
—  or  go.  Better  accept  the  fact  —  it  is  useless  to  meet." 

"I  refuse  to  accept  the  fact." 

"But  —  there  it  is.  I  only  make  you  angry.  And  you  imply 
evil  of  the  man  —  I  admire." 

He  so  plainly  boggled  over  the  words  that  Roy  struck  without 
hesitation. 

"Dyan  —  tell  me  straight  —  do  you  admire  him?  Would  you 
have  Aruna  marry  him?  " 

"N-no.  Impossible.  There  is  —  another  kind  of  wife,"  he 
blurted  out,  averting  his  eyes;  but  before  Roy  could  speak,  he 
had  pulled  himself  together.  "However  —  I  mustn't  stay  talk- 
ing. Good-night." 

Roy's  anger  —  fierce  but  transient,  always  —  had  faded. 

"There  are  some  ties  you  can't  break,  Dydn,  even  with  your 
Bande  Mdtaram.  Come  again  soon." 

Impossible  to  resist  the  friendly  tone.  "But,"  he  asked,  "how 
long  are  you  hanging  about  Delhi  like  this?  " 

"As  long  as  I  choose." 

"But —  why?" 


234  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"To  see  something  of  you,  old  chap.  It  seems  the  only  way  — 
unless  I  can  persuade  you  to  chuck  all  this  poisonous  vapouring, 
and  come  back  to  Jaipur  with  me.  Aruna's  waiting  —  breaking 
her  heart  —  longing  to  see  you  — " 

He  knew  he  was  rushing  his  fences;  but  the  mood  was  on;  the 
chance  too  good  to  lose. 

Dyan's  eyes  lightened  a  moment.  Then  he  shook  his  head. 
"  I  am  too  much  involved." 

"You  will  come,  though,  in  the  end,"  Roy  said  quietly.  "I 
can  wait.  Simday,  is  it?  And  we'll  bar  poHtics  —  as  we  did 
in  the  good  days.  Don't  you  want  to  hear  of  them  all  at 
Home?" 

"Sometimes  —  yes.  But  perhaps  —  better  not.  You  are  a 
fine  fellow,  Roy  —  even  to  quarrel  with.  Good-night."  They 
shook  hands  warmly. 

On  the  threshold,  Dyan  turned,  hesitated;  then  —  in  a  hurried 
murmur  —  asked:  '^  Where  is  she  —  what's  she  doing  now  — 
Tara?" 

He  was  obviously  unaware  of  having  used  her  Christian  name: 
and  Roy,  though  startled,  gave  no  sign. 

"She's  still  in  Serbia.  She's  been  simply  splendid.  Head  over 
ears  in  it  all  from  the  start."  —  He  paused  —  "Shall  I  tell  her 
—  when  I  write  .  .  .  about  you?" 

Dyan  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Waste  of  ink  and  paper.  It 
would  not  interest  her." 

"It  would.  I  know  Tara.  What  you  are  doing  now  would  hurt 
her  —  keenly." 

"Tcha!"  The  sharp  sound  expressed  sheer  unbelief.  It  also 
expressed  pain.  "Good-night,"  he  added,  for  the  third  time;  and 
went  out  —  leaving  Roy  electrified;  atingle  with  the  hope  of  suc- 
cess, at  last. 

She  was  not  forgotten;  though  Dyan  had  been  tr3dng  tc 
pretend  she  was  —  even  to  himself.  Ten  chances  to  one,  she  was 
still  at  the  core  of  everything;  even  his  present  incongruous 
activities  .  .  . 

Roy  paced  the  room;  his  imagination  alight;  his  own  recoil 
from  the  conjunction,  overborne  by  immediate  concern  for 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  235 

Dyan.  Unable  to  forget  her  —  who  could?  —  he  had  thrust  the 
pain  of  remembering  into  the  dark  background  of  his  mind;  and 
there  it  remained  —  a  hard  knot  of  soreness  and  hidden  bitter- 
ness —  as  Aruna  had  said.  And  all  that  bottled-up  bitterness 
had  been  vented  against  England  —  an  unconscious  symbol  of 
Tara,  desired  yet  withheld;  while  the  intensity  of  his  thwarted 
passion  sought  and  found  an  outlet  in  fervent  adoration  of  his 
country  visualised  as  woman.  Right  or  wrong  —  that  was  how 
Roy  saw  it.  And  the  argument  seemed  psychologically  sound. 
Cruel  to  be  kind,  he  must  deUberately  touch  the  point  of  pain; 
draw  the  hidden  thing  into  the  open;  and  so  reawaken  the  old 
Dyan,  who  could  arraign  the  new  one  far  more  effectually  than 
could  Roy  himself  or  another.  Seized  with  his  idea,  he  indulged 
in  a  more  hopeful  letter  to  Aruna;  and  had  scarcely  patience  to 
wait  for  Sunday. 

In  leisurely  course  it  arrived  —  that  last  Sunday  of  the  Great 
War.  The  Chandni  Chowk  was  abubble  with  strange  and  stirring 
.rumours;  but  the  day  waned  and  the  evening  waned  —  and  no 
Dydn  appeared. 

On  Monday  morning  —  still  no  word:  but  news,  so  tremen- 
dous, flashed  half  across  the  world,  that  Dydn  and  his  mys- 
terious defection  flickered  like  a  spent  match  in  the  blaze  of 
midday. 

The  War  was  over  —  virtually  over.  From  the  Vosges  to  the 
sea,  not  the  crack  of  a  rifle  nor  the  moan  of  a  shell;  only  an  abrupt, 
dramatic  silence  —  the  end!  Belief  in  the  utter  cessation  of  all 
that  wonderful  and  terrible  activity  penetrated  slowly.  And  as  it 
penetrated,  Roy  reaUsed,  with  something  like  dismay,  that  the 
right  and  natural  sense  of  elation  simply  was  not.  He  actually 
felt  depressed.  Shrink  as  he  might  from  the  jar  of  conflict,  the 
sure  instinct  of  a  soldier  race  warned  him  that  hell  holds  no  fury 
and  earth  no  danger  like  a  ruthless  enemy  not  decisively  smitten. 
The  psychology  of  it  was  beyond  him  —  shrouded  in  mystery. 
And  not  till  long  afterwards  did  he  know  how  many,  in  England 
and  France,  had  shared  his  bewildered  fecUng;  how  British  sol- 
diers in  Belgium  had  cried  like  children,  had  raged  almost  to  the 


236  FAR  TO  SEEK 

point  of  mutiny.  But  one  thing  he  knew  —  steeped  as  he  was, 
just  then,  m  the  substrata  of  Eastern  thought  and  feeling.  India 
would  never  understand.  Visible,  spectacular  victory,  alone 
could  impress  the  East:  and  such  an  impression  might  have  coun- 
teracted many  mistakes  that  had  gone  before  . 

Tuesday  brought  no  Dyan;  only  a  scrawled  note:  "  Sorry  — 
too  much  busmess.  Can't  come  just  now."  //  one  could  take 
that  at  its  face  value— !  But  it  might  mean  anything.  Had 
Chandranath  found  out— and  had  Dyan  not  the  moral  courage 
to  go  his  own  way?  He  knew  by  now  where  his  cousin  lodged; 
but  had  never  been  there.  It  was  in  one  of  the  oldest  parts  of 
the  city;  alive  with  political  intrigue.  If  Roy's  nationality  were 
suspected,  'things'  might  happen,  and  it  was  clearly  unfair  to 
his  father  to  run  needless  risks.  But  this  was  different.  'Things' 
might  be  happening  to  Dyan.  So,  after  nearly  a  week  of  mad- 
dening suspense,  he  resolved  —  with  all  due  caution  —  to  take 
his  chance. 

A  silvery  twilight  was  ebbing  from  the  sky  when  he  plunged 
into  a  maze  of  narrow  streets  and  by-lanes  where  the  stream 
of  Eastern  life  flows  along  immemorial  channels  scarcely  stirred 
by  surface  eddies  of  'advance.'  Threading  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  he  found  the  street  and  the  landmark  he  sought: 
a  certain  doorway,  adorned  with  a  faded  wreath  of  marigolds, 
indication  of  some  holy  presence  within;  and  just  beyond  it, 
a  low-browed  arch,ahnost  a  tunnel.  It  passed  under  balconied 
houses  toppling  perilously  for^vard;  and  as  Roy  entered  it  a  figure 
darkened  the  other  end.  He  could  only  distinguish  the  long  dark 
coat  and  turbaned  head:  but  there  flashed  instant  conviction  — 
Chandranath! 

Alert,  rather  than  alarmed,  he  hurried  forward,  hugging  the 
opposite  wall.  At  the  darkest  point  they  crossed.  Roy  felt  the 
other  pause,  scrutinise  him  — and  pass  on.  The  relief  of  it  I 
And  the  ignominy  of  suddenly  feeling  the  old  childish  terror, 
when  you  had  turned  your  back  on  a  dark  room.  It  was  all  he 
could  do  not  to  break  into  a  run  .  . . 

In  the  open  court,  set  round  with  tottering  houses,  a  sacred 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  237 

neem-tree  made  a  vast  patch  of  shadow.  Near  it  a  rickety  stair- 
case led  up  to  Dyan's  roof  room.  Roy,  mounting  cautiously, 
knocked  at  the  highest  door. 

"Are  you  there?  It's  Roy,"  he  called  softly. 

A  pause:  —  then  the  door  flew  open  and  Dyan  stood  before 
him,  in  loose  white  garments;  no  turban;  a  farouche  look  in  his 
eyes. 

"My  God  —  Roy!  Crazy  of  you!  I  never  thought  — " 

"Well,  I  got  sick  of  waiting.  I  suppose  I  can  come  in? "  Roy's 
impatience  was  the  measure  of  his  reUef. 

Dyan  moved  back  a  pace  and,  as  Roy  stepped  on  to  the 
roof,  he  carefully  closed  the  door. 

"Think  —  if  you  had  come  three  minutes  earlier!  He  only 
left  me  just  now  —  Chandranath." 

"And  passed  me  in  the  archway,"  added  Roy  with  his  touch 
of  bravado.  "I've  as  much  right  to  be  in  Delhi  —  and  to  vary 
my  costume  —  as  your  mysteriously  potent  friend.  It's  a  free 
country." 

"It  is  fast  becoming  —  not  so  free."  Dyan  lowered  his  voice, 
as  if  afraid  he  might  be  overheard.  "And  you  don't  consider  the 
trouble  it  might  make  —  for  me." 

"How  about  the  trouble  you've  been  making  for  me?  What's 
wrong?" 

Dyan  passed  a  nervous  hand  across  his  eyes  and  forehead. 
"Come  in.  It's  getting  cold  out  here,"  he  said,  in  a  repressed 
voice.  Roy  followed  him  across  the  roof-top,  with  its  low  parapet 
and  vault  of  darkening  sky,  up  three  steps,  into  a  small  arcaded 
room,  where  a  log  fire  burned  in  the  open  hearth.  Shabby,  unre- 
lated bits  of  furniture  gave  the  place  a  comfortless  air.  On  a 
comer  table  strewn  with  leaflets  and  pamphlets  ("Poisoned  ar- 
rows, up  to  date!"  thought  Roy),  a  typewriter  reared  its  hooded 
head.  The  sight  struck  a  shaft  of  pain  through  him.  Anina's 
Dyan  —  son  of  kings  and  warriors  —  turning  his  one  skilful 
hand  to  such  base  uses! 

"What's  wrong?"  he  repeated  with  emphasis.  "I  want  a 
str''ight  answer,  Dydn.  I've  risked  something  to  get  it." 

Dy£n  sat  down  near  a  small  table,  and  covered  his  eyes  with 


238  FAR  TO  SEEK 

his  hand.  "  There  is  —  so  much  wrong,"  he  said,  looking  stead- 
ily up  at  Roy.  "I  am  feeling  —  like  a  man  who  wakes  too 
suddenly  after  much  sleep-walking." 

" Since  when? "  asked  Roy,  keeping  himself  in  hand.  "What's 
jerked  you  awake?  D'you  know?" 

"There  have  been  many  jerks.  Seeing  you;  Aruna's  offering; 
this  news  of  the  War;  and  something  .  .  .  you  mentioned  last 
time." 

"What  was  that?  — Tara?"  Roy  lunged  straight  to  the 
middle  of  the  wound. 

Dyan  started.  "But  —  how  —  ?  I  never  said — "  he  stam- 
mered, visibly  shaken. 

"It  didn't  need  saying.  Aruna  told  me  —  the  fact;  and  my 
own  wits  told  me  the  rest.  You're  not  honestly  keen  —  are 
you?  —  to  shorten  the  arm  of  the  British  Raj  and  plimge  India 
into  chaos?" 

"No  —  no."  A  very  different  Dyan,  this,  to  the  one  who  had 
poured  out  stock  phrases  like  water  only  a  week  ago. 

"Isn't  bitterness  —  about  Tara  at  the  back  of  it?  Face  that 
straight,  old  chap;  and  —  if  it's  true,  say  so,  without  false 
shame." 

Dyan  was  silent  a  long  while,  staring  into  the  fire,  "Very 
strange  —  I  had  no  idea,"  he  said  at  last.  The  words  came 
slowly,  as  if  he  were  thinking  aloud.  "I  was  angry  —  miserable; 
hating  you  all;  even  —  very  nearly  —  her.  Then  came  the  War; 
and  I  thought  —  now  our  countries  will  become  like  one.  I  will 
win  her  by  some  brave  action  —  she  who  is  the  spirit  of  courage. 
From  France,  after  all  that  praise  of  Indians  in  the  papers,  I 
wrote  again.  No  use.  After  that,  I  hoped  by  some  brave  action, 
I  might  be  killed.  Instead,  through  stupid  carelessness,  I  am 
only  maimed  —  as  you  see.  I  was  foolishly  angry  when  Indian 
troops  were  sent  away  from  France:  and  my  heart  became  hard 
like  a  nut."  He  had  emerged  from  his  dream  now  and  was  frankly 
addressing  Roy  —  "I  knew,  if  I  went  home,  they  would  insist  I 
should  marry.  Quite  natural.  But  for  me  —  not  thinkable.  Yet 
I  must  go  back  to  India;  —  and  there,  in  Bombay,  I  heard  Chan- 
dranath  speak.  He  was  just  back  from  deportation;  and  to  me  his 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  239 

words  were  like  leaping  flames.  All  the  fire  of  my  passion  — 
choked  up  in  me  —  could  flow  freely  in  service  of  the  Mother.  I 
became  intoxicated  with  the  creed  of  my  new  comrades:  —  there 
is  neither  truth  nor  untruth,  right  nor  wrong;  there  is  only  the 
Mother.  I  was  filled  with  the  joy  of  dedication  and  unquestion- 
ing surrender.  It  gave  me  visions  like  opium  dreams.  Both 
kinds  of  opium  I  have  taken  freely  —  while  walking  in  my  sleep. 
I  was  ready  for  taking  life;  any  desperate  deed.  Instead  —  Tcha! 
I  have  to  take  money,  like  a  common  dacoit,  because  police  must 
be  bribed,  soldiers  tempted,  meetings  multiplied  — " 

"It  takes  more  than  the  blood  of  white  goats  to  oil  the  wheels 
of  your  chariot,"  said  Roy,  very  quiet,  but  rather  grim.  "And 
he's  not  the  man  to  do  his  own  dirty  work  —  eh?" 

"No.  He  is  only  very  clever  to  dress  it  up  in  fine  arguments. 
All  money  is  the  Mother's.  Only  they  are  thieves  who  selfishly 
hide  it  in  banks  and  safes.  Those  who  release  it  for  her  use  are 
deliverers — "  He  broke  off  with  a  harsh  laugh.  "In  spite  of 
education,  we  Indians  are  too  easily  played  upon,  Roy.  If  you 
had  not  spoken — of  her,  I  might  have  swallowed — even  that. 
Thieving  —  bah!  KilUng  is  man's  work.  There  is  sanction  in  the 
Gita— "' 

"Sanction  be  damned!"  Roy  cut  in  sharply.  "You  might  as 
well  say  Shakespeare  sanctioned  theft  because  he  wrote,  'Who 
steals  my  purse  steals  trash ' !  The  only  sanction  worth  anything 
is  inside  you.  And  you  didn't  seem  to  find  it  there.  But  let's  get 
at  the  point.  Did  you  refuse?" 

"No.  Only  —  for  the  first  tune,  I  demurred;  and  because  the 
need  is  urgent,  he  became  very  violent  —  in  language.  It  was 
almost  a  quarrel." 

"Clear  proof  you  scored!  Did  you  mention  Aruna?" 

Dydn  shook  his  head.  "If  /  become  violent,  it  is  not  only 
language — " 

"No.  You're  a  man.  And  now  you're  awake  again,  I  cap  tell 
you  things  —  but  I  can't  stay  all  night." 

"No.  He  is  coming  back.  Only  gone  to  Cantonments  —  on 
business." 

"What  sort  of  business?" 


^40  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Dydn  chewed  his  lip  and  looked  uncomfortable. 

"Never  mind,  old  chap.  'I  can  see  a  church  by  daylight'! 
He's  getting  at  the  troops.  Spreading  lies  about  the  Armistice. 
And  after  that  — ?" 

"He  is  returning  —  about  midnight,  hoping  to  find  me  in  a 
more  reasonable  mind  — " 

"And,  by  Jove,  we  won't  disappoint  him! "  cried  Roy,  who  had 
seen  his  God-given  chance.  Springing  up,  he  gripped  Dyan  by 
the  shoulder.  "Your  reasonable  mind  will  take  the  form  of  scoot- 
ing back  with  me,  jut  put;  and  we  can  slip  out  of  Delhi  by  the 
night  mail.  Time's  precious.  So  hurry  up." 

But  Dyan  did  not  stir.  He  sat  there  looking  so  plainly  stag- 
gered that  Roy  burst  out  laughing. 

"You're  not  half  awake  yet!  You've  messed  about  so  long 
with  men  who  merely  'agitate'  and  'inaugurate,'  that  you've 
forgotten  the  kind  who  act  first  and  talk  afterwards.  I  give  you 
ten  minutes  to  scribble  a  tender  farewell.  Then  —  we  make 
tracks.  It's  all  I  came  here  for  —  if  you  want  to  know.  And  I 
take  it  you're  willing?" 

Dyan  sighed.  "I  am  willing  enough.  But  —  there  are  many 
complications.  You  do  not  know.  They  are  organising  big  trou- 
ble over  the  Rowlatt  Bill  —  and  other  things.  I  have  not  much 
secret  information,  or  my  life  would  probably  not  be  worth  a  pin. 
But  it  is  all  one  skilful  network,  and  there  are  too  easy  ways  in 
India  for  social  and  spiritual  boycott  — " 

He  enlarged  a  little;  quoted  cases  that  filled  Roy  with  surprise 
and  indignation,  but  no  way  shook  his  resolve. 

"We  needn't  go  straight  to  Jaipm*.  Quite  good  fun  to  knock 
round  a  bit.  Throw  him  off  the  scent  till  he's  got  over  the 
shock.  We  can  wire  our  news;  Aruna  will  be  too  happy  to  fret 
over  a  little  delay.  And  you  won't  be  ostracised  among  your 
own  people.  They  want  you.  They  want  your  help.  Grand- 
father does.  The  best  /  could  do  was  to  run  you  to  earth  — 
open  your  eyes  —  " 

"And,  by  Indra,  you've  done  it,  Roy." 

"You'll  come,  then?" 

"Yes,  I'll  come  —  and  damn  the  consequences  I" 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS 


241 


The  Dydn  of  Oxford  days  was  visibly  emerging  now:  a  ver- 
itable awakening;  the  strained  look  gone  from  his  face. 

It  was  Roy's  'good  minute':  and  in  the  breathless  rush  that 
followed,  he  swept  Dyan  along  with  him  —  unresisting,  exalted, 
amazed  .  .' . 

The  farewell  letter  was  written;  and  Dydn's  few  belongings 
stowed  into  a  basket-box.  Then  they  hurried  down,  through  the 
dark  courtyard  into  the  darker  tunnel;  and  Roy  felt  imasham- 
edly  glad  not  to  be  alone.  His  feet  would  hurry,  in  spite  of  him; 
and  that  kept  him  a  few  paces  ahead. 

Passing  a  dark  alcove,  he  swerved  instinctively  —  and  hoped 
to  goodness  Dyan  had  not  seen. 

Just  before  reaching  the  next  one,  he  tripped  over  something  — 
taut  string  or  wire  stretched  across  the  passage.  It  should  have 
sent  him  headlong,  had  he  been  less  agile.  As  it  was,  he  stumbled, 
cursed,  and  kept  his  feet. 

"'Ware  man  trap!"  he  called  back  to  Dyan,  under  his  breath. 

Next  instant,  from  the  alcove,  a  shot  rang  out:  and  it  was 
Dydn  who  cursed;  for  the  bullet  had  grazed  his  arm. 

They  both  ran  now,  full  speed,  and  made  no  bones  about  it. 
Roy's  sensations  reminded  him  vividly  of  the  night  he  and  Lance 
fled  from  the  Turks. 

"We  seem  to  have  butted  in  and  spoilt  somebody's  little 
game!"  he  remarked,  as  they  tiurned  into  a  wider  street  and 
slackened  speed.  "How's  your  arm?" 

"Nothing.  A  mere  scratch."  Dydn's  tone  was  graver.  "But 
that's  most  imusual.  I  can't  make  it  out  — " 

"You're  well  quit  of  it  all,  anyhow,"  said  Roy  and  slipped  a 
hand  through  his  arm. 

Not  till  they  were  settling  down  for  a  few  hours'  sleep,  in  the 
night  mail,  did  it  dawn  on  Roy  that  the  little  game  miglit  possi- 
bly have  been  connected  with  himself.  Chandranath  had  seen 
him  in  that  dress  before.  He  had  just  come  very  near  quarrelling 
with  Dyan.  If  he  suspected  Roy's  identity,  he  would  suspect 
his  influence  .  .  . 

He  frankly  spoke  his  thought  to  Dydn;  and  found  it  had 


242  FAR  TO  SEEK 

occurred  to  him  already.  "Not  himself,  of  course,"  he  added. 
*'  The  gentleman  is  not  partial  to  firearms  1  But,  suspecting  —  he 
might  have  arranged;  hoping  to  catch  you  coming  back  —  the 
swine!  Naturally,  after  this,  he  will  go  further  than  suspecting!" 
"He  can  go  to  the  devil  —  and  welcome;  now  I've  collared 
yoii!^^  said  Roy;  —  and  slept  soundly  upon  that  satisfying 
achievement  through  all  the  rattle  and  clatter  of  the  express. 


Chapter  XII 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so. 

R.  Browning 

It  was  distinctly  one  of  Roy's  great  moments  when,  at  last,  they 
four  stood  together  in  Sir  Lakshman's  room:  the  old  man,  out- 
wardly impassive  —  as  became  a  Rajput  —  profoundly  moved 
in  the  deep  places  of  his  heart;  Aruna,  in  Oxford  gown  and  sari^ 
radiant  one  moment;  the  next  —  in  spite  of  stoic  resolves  —  cry- 
ing softly  in  Dyan's  arms.  And  Roy  understood  only  too  well. 
The  moment  he  held  her  hand  and  met  her  eyes  —  he  knew.  It 
was  not  only  joy  at  Dyan's  return  that  evoked  the  veiled  blush, 
the  laugh  that  trembled  into  tears.  Conceit  or  no  conceit,  his 
intuition  was  not  to  be  deceived. 

And  the  conviction  did  not  pass.  It  was  confirmed  by  every 
day,  every  hoiur  he  spent  in  her  company.  On  the  rare  occasions 
when  they  were  alone  together,  the  very  thing  that  must  be  re- 
ligiously stifled  and  hid  emanated  from  her  like  fragrance  from  a 
flower;  sharply  reawakening  his  own  temptation  to  respond  — 
were  it  only  to  ease  her  pain.  And  there  was  more  in  it  than  that 
—  or  very  soon  would  be,  if  he  hesitated  much  longer  to  clinch 
matters  by  telling  her  the  truth;  though  every  nerve  shrank 
from  the  ordeal  —  for  himself  and  her.  Running  away  from 
oneself  was  plainly  a  futile  experiment.  To  have  so  failed  with 
her  disheartened  him  badly  and  dwarfed  his  proud  achievement 
to  an  insignificant  thing. 

To  the  rest,  unaware,  his  triumph  seemed  complete,  his  risky 
adventure  justified  beyond  cavil.  They  all  admitted  as  much;  — 
even  Vincent,  who  abjured  superlatives  and  had  privately  taken 
failure  for  granted.  Roy,  in  a  fit  of  modesty,  ascribed  it  all  to 
'luck.'  By  the  merest  diance  he  had  caught  Dydn,  on  his  own 
confession,  just  as  the  first  flickers  of  doubt  were  invading  his 
h3^notised  soul ;  just  when  it  began  to  dawn  on  him  that  alien 
hands  were  pulling  the  strings.   He  had  already  begim  to  feel 


244  FAR  TO  SEEK 

trapped;  unwilling  to  go  forward;  unable  to  go  back;  and  the  fact 
that  no  inner  secrets  were  confided  to  him  had  galled  his  Rajput 
vanity  and  pride.  In  the  event,  he  was  thankful  enough  for  the 
supposed  slight;  since  it  made  him  feel  appreciably  safer  from  the 
zeal  of  his  discarded  friends. 

Much  of  this  he  had  confided  to  Roy,  in  fragments  and  jerks, 
on  the  night  of  their  amazing  exit  from  Delhi;  already  sufiiciently 
himself  again  to  puzzle  frankly  over  that  perverted  Dyan;  to 
marvel  —  with  a  simplicity  far  removed  from  mere  foolishness  — 
'how  one  man  can  make  a  magic  in  other  men's  minds  so  that  he 
shall  appear  to  them  an  eagle  when  he  is  only  a  crow.' 

"That  particular  form  of  magic,"  Roy  told  him,  "has  made 
half  the  history  of  the  world.  We  all  like  to  flatter  ourselves 
we're  safe  from  it  —  till  we  get  bitten!  You've  been  no  more  of  a 
fool  than  the  others,  Dyan  —  if  that's  any  consolation." 

The  offending  word  rankled  a  little.  The  truth  of  it  rankled 
more.  "  By  Indra,  I  am  no  fool  now.  Perhaps  he  has  discovered 
that  already.  I  fancy  my  letter  will  administer  a  shock.  I  won- 
der what  he  will  do?" 

"He  won't  'do.'  You  can  bank  on  that.  He  may  fling  vitriol 
over  you  on  paper.  But  you  won't  have  the  pleasure  of  his 
company  at  Jaipur.  He  left  his  card  on  us  before  the  Dewdli. 
And  there's  been  trouble  since;  leaflets  circulating  mysteriously; 
an  exploded  attempt  to  start  a  seditious  'rag.'  So  they're  on 
the  qui  vive.  He'll  coimt  that  one  up  against  me:  but  no  doubt 
I'll  manage  to  survive." 

And  Dyan,  in  the  privacy  of  his  heart,  had  felt  distinctly  re- 
lieved. Not  that  he  lacked  the  courage  of  his  race;  but,  having 
seen  the  man  for  years,  as  it  were,  through  a  magnifying  lens,  he 
could  not,  all  in  a  moment,  see  him  for  the  thing  he  was:  —  dan- 
gerous as  a  snake,  yet  swift  as  a  snake  to  wriggle  out  of  harm's 
way. 

He  had  not  been  backward,  however,  in  awakening  his  grand- 
father to  purdah  manceuvres.  Strictly  in  private  —  he  told  his 
cousin  —  there  had  been  ungovemed  storms  of  temper,  ungov- 
erned  abuse  of  Roy,  who  was  suspected  by  '  the  Inside '  of  know- 
ing too  much  and  having  undue  influence  with  the  old  man. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  245 

*The  Inside,'  he  gathered,  had  from  early  days  been  jealous  of 
the  favourite  daughter  and  all  her  belongings.  Naturally,  in 
Dyan's  opinion,  his  sister  ought  to  marry;  and  the  sooner  the 
better.  Perhaps  he  had  been  imwise,  after  all,  insisting  on 
postponement.  By  now  she  would  have  been  settled  in  her  law- 
ful niche,  instead  of  making  trouble  with  this  craze  for  hospital 
nursing  and  keeping  outside  caste.  Not  surprising  if  she  shrank 
from  living  at  home,  after  all  she  had  been  through.  Better  for 
them  both,  perhaps,  to  break  frankly  with  orthodox  Hinduism 
and  join  the  Brahma  Samaj. 

As  Roy  knew  precisely  how  much  —  or  rather,  how  little  — 
Aruna  liked  working  in  the  wards,  he  suffered  a  pang  at  the 
pathos  of  her  innocent  guile.  And  if  Dyan  had  his  own  sus- 
picions, he  kept  them  to  himself.  He  also  kept  to  himself  the 
vitriolic  outpoiuing  which  he  had  duly  found  awaiting  him  at 
Jaipm*.  It  contained  too  many  limd  allusions  to  'that  con- 
ceited, imperialistic  half-caste  cousin  of  yours';  and  Roy  mighjt 
resent  the  implied  stigma  as  much  as  Dyan  resented  it  for 
him.  So  Dydn  tore  up  the  effusion,  intended  for  the  eye  of 
Roy,  merely  remarking  that  it  had  enraged  him.  It  was  beneath 
contempt. 

Roy  would  have  liked  to  see  it,  all  the  same;  for  he  knew 
himself  quicker  than  Dy^n  at  reading  between  the  lines.  The 
beggar  would  not  hit  back  straight.  But,  given  the  chance,  he 
might  try  it  on  some  other  way  —  witness  the  pistol  shot  in 
the  arcade;  a  side  light  —  or  a  side  flash  —  on  the  pleasant  sort 
of  devil  he  was !  Back  in  the  Jaipur  Residency,  in  the  garden  that 
was  'almost  England,'  back  in  his  good  familiar  tweed  coat  and 
breeches,  the  whole  Delhi  interlude  seemed  strangely  theatrical 
and  imreal;  more  like  a  vivid  dream  than  an  experience  in  the 
flesh. 

But  there  was  Dy£n  to  prove  it  no  dream;  and  the  perilous 
charm  of  Aruna,  that  must  be  resisted  to  the  best  of  his 
power  .  .  . 

All  this  stir  and  ferment  within;  yet  not  a  surface  ripple  dis- 
turbed the  placid  flow  of  those  uneventful  weeks  between  the 


246  FAR  TO  SEEK 

return  of  Roy  and  the  coming  of  Lance  Desmond  for  Christmas 
leave. 

It  is  so  that  drama  most  commonly  happens  in  life  —  a  light 
xmder  a  bushel;  set  in  the  midst,  yet  unseen.  Vincent,  delving  in 
ethnological  depths,  saw  little  or  nothing  outside  his  manuscript 
and  maps.  Floss  Eden  —  engrossed  in  her  own  drawing-room 
comedy  with  Captain  Martin  —  saw  less  than  nothing,  except 
that  'Mr.  Sinclair's  other  native  cousin'  came  too  often  to  the 
house.  For  she  turned  up  her  assertive  nose  at  'native  gentle- 
men'; and  confided  to  Martin  her  private  opinion  that  Aunt 
Thea  went  too  far  in  that  line.  She  bothered  too  much  about 
other  people  all  round  —  which  was  true; 

She  had  bothered  a  good  deal  more  about  Floss  Eden,  in  early 
days,  than  that  young  lady  at  all  realised.  And  now  —  in  the  in- 
tervals of  organising  Christmas  presents  and  Christmas  guests  — 
she  was  bothering  a  good  deal  over  Roy,  whose  absence  had  ob- 
viously failed  to  clear  the  air. 

Not  that  he  was  silent  or  aloof.  But  his  gift  of  speech  overlaid 
a  reticence  deeper  than  that  of  the  merely  silent  man ;  the  kind  she 
had  lived  with  and  understood.  Once  you  got  past  their  defences, 
you  were  unmistakeably  inside:  —  Vinx,  for  instance.  But  with 
Roy  she  was  aware  of  reserves  within  reserves,  which  made  him 
the  more  interesting,  but  also  the  more  distracting,  when  one  felt 
entitled  to  know  the  lie  of  the  land.  For,  Aruna  apart,  wasn't 
he  becoming  too  deeply  immersed  in  his  Indian  relations  — 
losing  touch,  perhaps,  with  those  at  Home?  Did  it  —  or  did  it 
not  —  matter  that,  day  after  day,  he  was  strolling  with  Aruna, 
riding  with  Dyan,  pig-sticking  and  buck-hunting  with  the  royal 
cheetahs  and  the  royal  heir  to  the  throne;  or  plunging  neck-deep 
in  plans  and  possibilities,  always  in  connection  with  those  two? 
His  mail  letters  were  few  and  not  bulky,  as  she  knew  from  hand- 
ling the  contents  of  the  Residency  mail-bag.  And  he  very  rarely 
spoke  of  them  all:  less  than  ever  of  late.  To  her  ardent  nature 
it  seemed  inexplicable.  Perhaps  it  was  just  part  of  his  pecuHar 
'inwardness.'  She  would  have  liked  to  feel  sure,  however  .  .  . 

Vinx  would  say  it  was  none  of  her  business.  But  Lance  would 
be  a  help.  She  was  counting  on  him  to  readjust  the  scales.  Thank 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  247 

goodness  for  Lance  —  giving  up  the  Lahore  'week'  and  the 
Polo  Tournament  to  spend  Christmas  with  her  and  Roy  in  the 
wilds  of  Rajputana.  Just  to  have  him  about  the  place  again  — 
his  music,  his  big  laugh,  his  radiant  certainty  that,  in  any  and 
every  circumstance,  it  was  a  splendid  thing  to  be  alive  —  would 
banish  worries  and  lift  her  spirits  sky-high.  After  the  still,  deep 
waters  of  her  beloved  Vinx  —  whose  strain  of  remoteness  had 
not  been  quite  dispelled  by  marriage  —  and  the  starlit  mysteries 
of  Aruna  and  the  intriguing  complexities  of  Roy,  a  breath  of 
Lance  would  be  tonic  as  a  breeze  from  the  Hills.  He  was  so  clear 
and  sure;  not  in  flashes  and  spurts,  but  continuously,  like  sim- 
shine;  because  the  clearness  and  sureness  had  his  whole  personal- 
ity behind  them.  And  he  could  be  coimted  on  to  deal  faithfully 
with  Roy;  perhaps  lure  him  back  to  the  Pimjab.  It  would  be  sad 
losing  him;  but  in  the  distracting  circumstances,  a  clean  cut 
seemed  the  only  solution.  She  would  just  put  io  a  word  to  that 
effect:  a  weakness  she  had  rarely  been  known  to  resist,  however 
complete  her  faith  in  the  man  of  the  moment.  She  simply  dared 
not  think  of  Artina,  who  trusted  her.  It  seemed  like  betrayal  — 
no  less.  And  yet . . .  ? 


Chapter  XIII 

One  made  out  of  the  bcUer  part  of  earth, 
A  man  born  as  at  sunrise. 

Swinburne 

It  was  all  over  —  the  strenuous  joy  of  planning  and  preparing. 
Christmas  itself  was  over.  From  the  adjacent  borders  of  British 
India  five  lonely  ones  had  been  gathered  in.  There  was  Mr. 
Mayne,  Commissioner  of  Delhi,  Vincent's  old  friend  of  Kohat 
days,  immarried  and  alone  in  camp  with  a  stray  Settlement 
Officer,  whose  wife  and  children  were  at  Home.  There  was  Mr. 
Bourne  —  in  the  Canals  —  large-boned  and  cadaverous,  with  a 
sardonic  gleam  in  his  eye.  Rumour  said  there  had  once  been  a 
wife  and  a  friend;  now  there  remained  only  work  and  the  whiskey 
bottle;  and  he  was  overdoing  both.  To  him  Thea  devoted  herself 
and  her  fiddle  with  particular  zest.  The  other  two  lonclies  — 
a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Nair  —  were  medical  missionaries,  fighting  the 
influenza  scourge  in  the  Delhi  area;  drastically  disinfected  — 
because  of  the  babies;  more  than  thankful  for  a  brief  respite 
from  their  daily  diet  of  tragedy,  and  from  labours  Hercules'  self 
would  not  have  disdained.  For  all  that,  they  had  needed  a  good 
deal  of  pressing.  They  had  'no  clothes.'  They  were  very  shy. 
But  Thea  had  insisted;  so  they  came  —  clothed  chiefly  in  shyness 
and  gratitude,  which  made  them  shyer  than  ever. 

Roy,  still  new  to  Anglo-India,  was  amazed  at  the  way  these 
haphazard  humans  were  thawed  into  a  passing  intimacy  by  the 
simshine  of  Thea's  personality.  For  himself  it  was  the  nearest 
approach  to  the  real  tiling  that  he  had  known  since  that  dear 
and  dreamlike  Christmas  of  1916.  It  warmed  his  heart;  and 
renewed  the  well-spring  of  careless  happiness  that  had  gone  from 
him  utterly  since  the  blow  fell;  gone,  so  he  believed,  for  ever. 

Something  of  this  she  divined  —  and  was  glad.  Yet  her  exigent 
heart  was  not  altogether  at  ease.  His  reaction  to  Lance,  though 
unmistakeable,  fell  short  of  her  confident  expectation.  He  was 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  249 

still  squandering  far  too  much  time  on  the  other  two.  Sometimes 
she  felt  almost  angry  with  him: — jealous  —  for  Lance.  She 
knew  how  deeply  he  cared  imderneath;  because  she  too  was  a 
Desmond.    And  Desmonds  could  never  care  by  halves. 

This  morning,  for  instance,  the  wretch  was  out  riding  with 
Dyan;  and  there  was  Lance,  alone  in  the  drawing-room  strmn- 
ming  the  accompaniments  of  things  they  would  play  to-night: 
just  a  wandering  succession  of  chords  in  a  minor  key;  but  he  had 
his  father's  rare  gift  of  touch,  that  no  training  can  impart,  and 
the  same  trick  of  playing  pensively  to  himself,  almost  as  if  he 
were  thinking  aloud.  It  was  five  years  since  she  had  seen  her 
father;  and  those  pensive  chords  brought  sudden  tears  to  her 
eyes.  What  did  Lance  mean  by  it  —  mooning  about  the  piano 
like  that?  Had  he  fallen  in  love?  That  was  one  of  the  few  ques- 
tions she  did  not  dare  ask  him.  But  here  was  her  chance,  at  least, 
to  'put  in  a  word'  about  Roy. 

So  she  strolled  into  the  drawing-room  and  leaned  over  the 
grand  piano.  His  smile  acknowledged  her  presence  and  his  pen- 
sive chords  went  wandering  softly  away  into  the  bass. 

"  Idiot  —  what  are  you  doing?  "  she  asked  briskly,  because  the 
music  was  creeping  down  her  spine.  "Talking  to  yourself?" 

"More  or  less." 

"Well  —  give  over.  I'm  here.  And  it's  a  bad  habit." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  went  wandering  on.  "  In  this  form  I 
find  it  curiously  soothing  and  companionable." 

"Well,  you  oughtn't  to  be  needing  either  at  Christmas-time 
under  my  roof,  with  Roy  here  and  all  —  if  he'd  only  behave. 
Sometimes  I  want  to  shake  him  — " 

"Why  — what's  the  matter  with  Roy?"  — That  mnocent 
query  checked  her  rush  of  protest  in  mid-career.  Had  he  not 
even  noticed?  Men  were  the  queerest,  dearest  things!  —  "He 
looks  awfully  fit.  Better  all  round.  He's  pulling  up.  You  never 
saw  him  —  you  don't  realise  — " 

"  But,  my  dear  boy,  do  you  realise  that  he's  getting  rather  badly 
bitten  with  all  this — Indian  problems  and  Indian  cousins — " 

Lance  nodded.  "I've  been  afraid  of  that.  But  one  can't  say 
much." 


250  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"7  can't.  I  was  counting  on  you  as  the  God-given  antidote. 
And  there  he  is,  still  fooling  round  with  Dyan,  when  you've 
come  all  this  way  —  It  makes  me  wild.  It  i&n't  fair  — " 

Her  genuine  distress  moved  Lance  to  cease  strumming  and 
bestow  a  friendly  pat  on  her  hand.  "Don't  be  giving  yourself 
headaches  and  heartaches  over  Roy  and  me,  darlint.  We're 
going  strong,  thanks  very  much!  It  would  take  an  earthquake 
to  throw  us  out  of  step.  If  he  chose  to  chuck  his  boots  at  me,  I 
wouldn't  trouble  —  except  to  return  the  trees  if  they  were  handy! 
Strikes  me  women  don't  yet  begin  to  understand  the  noble  art 
of  friendship  — " 

"Which  is  a  libel  —  but  let  that  pass!  Besides  —  Hasn't  it 
struck  you?  Anina — " 

*'  My  God ! "  His  hands  dropped  with  a  crash  on  the  keyboard. 
Then,  in  a  low,  swift  rush:  "Thea,  you  don't  mean  it  —  you're 
pulling  my  leg!" 

"Bible-oath  I'm  not.  It's  too  safely  tucked  under  the  piano." 

"  My  God! "  he  repeated  softly,  ignoring  her  incurable  frivol- 
ity.  "Has  he  5ci<f  anything?" 

"No.  But  it's  plain  they're  both  smitten  more  or  less." 

"Smitten  be  damned." 

"Lance!  I  won't  have  Artjna  insulted.  Let  me  tell  you  she's 
charming  and  cultivated;  much  better  company  than  Floss.  And 
I  love  her  like  a  daughter  —  " 

"  Would  you  have  her  marry  Roy?  "  he  flung  out  wrathfuUy. 

"Of  course  not.    But  still  —" 

"Me  —  perhaps?"  he  queried  with  such  fine  scorn  that  she 
burst  out  laughing. 

"You  priceless  gem!  You  are  the  unadulterated  Anglo-In- 
dian!" 

"  Well  —  what  else  would  I  be?  What  else  are  you,  by  the 
same  token?  " 

"Not  adulterated,"  she  denied  stoutly.  "Perhaps  a  wee  bit 
less  'prejudiced.'  The  awful  result,  I  suppose,  of  failing  to  keep 
myself  scrupulously  detached  from  my  surroundings.  Besides, 
you  couldn't  be  married  twenty  years  to  that  Vinx  and  not  widen 
out  a  bit.  Of  course  I'm  quite  aware  that  widening  out  has  its 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  251 

insidious  dangers  and  limitation  its  heroic  \artues  —  Hush! 
Don't  fly  into  a  rage.  You're  not  limited,  old  boy.  You  loved 
—  Lady  Sinclair." 

"I  adored  her,"  Lance  said,  very  low;  and  his  fingers  strayed 
over  the  keys  again.  "5m/  — she  was  an  accomplished  fact. 
And  —  she  was  one  in  many  thousands.  She's  gone  now, 
though.   And  there's  poor  Sir  Nevil  — " 

He  rose  abruptly  and  strode  over  to  the  fireplace.  "Tell  you 
what,  Thea.  If  the  bee  in  Roy's  bonnet  is  buzzing  to  that  tune, 
someone's  got  to  stop  it  — " 

"That's  my  point!"  She  swung  round  confronting  him. 
"Why  not  whisk  him  back  to  the  Punjab?  It  does  seem  the 
only  way — " 

Lance  nodded  gravely.  "Now  you  talk  sense.  Mind,  I  don't 
believe  he'll  come.  Roy's  a  tougher  customer  than  he  looks  to 
the  naked  eye.  But  I'll  have  a  shot  at  it  —  to-night.  If  needs 
must,  I'll  tell  him  why.  I  can  swallow  half  a  regiment  of  his 
Dyans;  but  not  —  the  other  thing.  I  hope  you  find  us  intact  in 
the  morning!" 

She  flew  to  him  and  kissed  him  with  fervour;  and  she  was  still 
in  his  arms  when  Roy  himself  str6lled  casually  into  the  room. 

There  were  only  three  guests  that  night;  the  State  Engineer 
and  two  British  officers  in  the  Mahardja's  employ.  But  they  sat 
down  sixteen  to  dinner;  and,  very  soon  after,  came  three  post- 
prandial guests  in  the  persons  of  Dyan  and  Sir  Lakshman,  with 
his  distinguished  friend  Mahomed  Inayat  Khan,  from  Hydera- 
bad. Nothing  Thea  enjoyed  better  than  getting  a  mixed  batch 
of  men  together  and  hearing  them  talk  —  especially  shop;  for 
then  she  knew  their  hearts  were  in  it.^  They  were  happy. 

And  to-night,  her  chance  assortment  was  amazingly  varied, 
even  for  India:  —  Army,  'Political,'  Civil;  P.W.D.  and  Native 
States;  New  India,  in  the  person  of  Dydn;  and  not  least,  the 
'medical  mish'  pair:  an  element  rich  in  mute,  inglorious  hero- 
ism, as  the  villagers  and  'depressed  classes'  of  India  know. 
She  took  keen  delight  in  the  racial  interplay  of  thought  and 
argmnent,  with  Roy,  as  it  were,  for  bridge-builder  between. 


252  FAR  TO  SEEK 

How  he  would  relish  the  idea!  He  seemed  very  much  in  the 
vein  this  evening,  especially  after  his  grandfather  arrived.  He 
was  clearly  making  an  impression  on  Mr.  Mayne  and  Inayat 
Khan;  and  a  needle-prick  of  remorse  touched  her  heart.  For 
Aruna,  annexed  by  Captain  Martin's  subaltern,  was  watching 
him  too,  when  she  fancied  no  one  was  looking;  and  Lance, 
attentively  silent,  was  probably  laying  deep  plans  for  his  cap- 
ture. A  wicked  shame  —  but  still  .  .  . ! 

As  a  matter  of  fact.  Lance  too  was  troubled  with  faint  com- 
punction. He  had  never  seen  Roy  in  this  kind  of  company,  nor 
in  this  particular  vein.  And,  reluctantly,  he  admitted  that  it  did 
seem  rather  a  waste  of  his  mentally  reviving  vigour  hauling  him 
back  to  the  common  round  of  tennis  and  dances  and  polo  —  yes, 
even  sacred  polo  —  when  he  was  so  dead  keen  on  this  infernal 
agitation  business  and  seemed  to  know  such  a  deuce  of  a  lot  about 
it  all,  one  way  and  another.  Lance  himself  knew  far  too  little; 
and  was  anxious  to  hear  more,  for  the  very  intimate,  practical 
reason  that  he  was  not  quite  happy  about  his  Sikh  troop.  The 
Pathan  lot  were  all  right.  But  the  Sikhs  —  his  pride  and  joy  — 
were  being  'got  at'  by  those  devils  in  the  city.  And,  if  these 
men  could  be  believed,  'things'  were  going  to  be  very  much 
worse;  not  only  'down  country,'  but  also  in  the  Pimjab, 
India's  'sure  shield' against  the  invader.  To  a  Desmond,  the 
mere  suggestion  of  the  Punjab  'turning  traitor'  was  as  if  one 
impugned  the  courage  of  his  father  or  the  honour  of  his  mother; 
so  curiously  personal  is  India's  hold  upon  the  hearts  of  Eng- 
lishmen who  come  under  her  spell. 

So  Lance  listened  intently,  if  a  little  anxiously,  to  all  that 
Thea's  'mixed  biscuits'  had  to  say  on  that  all-absorbing  subject. 

For  to-night  'shop'  held  the  field:  if  that  could  be  called  'shop' 
which  vitally  concerned  the  fate  of  England  and  India,  and  of 
British  dominion  in  the  East.  Agitation  against  the  courageous 
measures  embodied  in  the  Rowlatt  Bills  was  already  astir  here 
and  there,  like  bubbles  roimd  the  edge  of  a  pot  before  it  boils. 
And  Inayat  Khan  had  come  straight  from  Bombay,  where  the 
National  Congress  had  just  rejected  with  scorn  the  latest  pallia- 
tive from  Home;  had  demanded  the  release  of  all  revolutionaries. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  253 

and  the  wholesale  repeal  of  laws  against  sedition.  Here  was 
'shop'  sufficiently  ominous  to  overshadow  all  other  topics:  and 
there  was  no  gSne,  no  constraint.  The  Englishmen  could  talk 
freely  in  the  presence  of  cultured  Indians  who  stood  for  Jaipur 
and  Hyderabad;  since  both  States  were  loyal  to  the  core. 

Dyan,  like  Lance,  spoke  little  and  pondered  much  on  the  talk 
of  these  men  whose  straight  speech  and  thoughts  were  refreshing 
as  their  own  sea-breezes  after  the  fimies  of  rhetoric,  the  fog 
of  false  values  that  had  bemused  his  brain  these  three  years. 
Strange  how  all  the  ugliness  and  pain  of  hate  had  shrivelled 
away;  how  he  could  even  shake  hands,  imtroubled,  with  that 
'imperialistic  bureaucrat*  the  Commissioner  of  Delhi,  whom  he 
might  have  been  told  off,  any  day,  to  'remove  from  this  mortal 
coil.*  Strange  to  sit  there,  over  against  him,  while  he  puffed  his 
cigar  and  talked,  without  fear,  of  increasing  antagonism,  in- 
creasing danger  to  himself  and  his  kind. 

"There's  no  sense  in  disguising  the  unpalatable  truth  that  New 
India  hates  us,'*  said  he  in  his  gruff,  deliberate  voice.  "Present 
company  excepted,  I  hope!" 

He  gravely  inclined  his  head  towards  Dydn,  who  responded 
mutely  with  a  flutter  at  his  heart.  Impossible:  —  the  man  could 
not  suspect  —  ? 

And  the  man,  looking  him  frankly  in  the  eyes,  added,  "The 
spirit  of  the  Mutiny's  not  extinct  —  and  we  know  it,  those  of  us 
that  count." 

Dydn  simply  sat  dumbfounded.  It  was  Sir  Lakshman  who 
said,  in  his  guarded  tone:  "Nevertheless,  sir,  the  bulk  of  our 
people  are  loyal  and  peaceable.  Only  I  fear  there  are  some  in 
England  who  do  not  count  that  fact  to  their  credit." 

"  If  they  ever  become  anything  else,  it  won*t  be  to  our  credit," 
put  in  Roy.  "If  we  can't  stand  up  to  bluster  and  sedition  with 
that  moral  force  at  our  backs,  we  shall  deserve  to  go  under." 

"Well  spoken,  Roy,"  said  his  grandfather,  still  more  quietl>. 
"Let  us  hope  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  Sadi  says,  'The  fountain 
head  of  a  spring  can  be  blocked  with  a  stick;  but,  in  full  flood,  it 
cannot  be  crossed,  even  on  an  elephant.*" 

They  exchanged  a  glance  that  stirred  Roy*s  pulses  and  gave 


254  FAR  TO  SEEK 

him  confidence  to  go  on : "  I  don't  believe  it  is  too  late.  But  what 
bothers  me  is  this  —  are  we  treating  our  moral  force  as  it  de- 
serves? Are  we  giving  them  loyalty  in  return  for  theirs  —  the 
sort  they  can  understand?  With  a  dumb  executive  and  voluble 
'patriots'  persuading  or  intimidating,  the  poor  beggars  haven't 
a  dog's  chance,  unless  we  openly  stand  by  them;  openly  smite 
our  enemies  —  and  theirs."  He  boldly  addressed  himself  to 
Mayne,  the  sole  symbol  of  authority  present;  and  the  Com- 
missioner listened,  with  a  glint  of  amused  approval  in  his  eye. 

"You're  young,  Mr.  Sinclair  —  which  doesn't  mean  you're 
wrong!  Most  of  us,  in  our  limited  fashion,  are  doing  what  we  can 
on  those  lines.  But,  after  spending  half  a  lifetime  in  this  cli- 
mate, doing  oiur  utmost  to  give  the  peasant  —  and  the  devil  — 
his  due,  we're  apt  to  grow  cynical — " 

"Not  to  mention  suicidal!"  grunted  the  slave  of  work  and 
whiskey.  "  We  Canal  coolies  —  hardly  visible  to  the  naked  eye 
—  are  adding  something  like  an  Egypt  a  year  to  the  Empire.  But, 
bless  you,  England  takes  no  notice.  Only  let  some  underbred 
planter  or  raw  subaltern  bundle  an  Indian  out  of  his  carriage,  or  a 
dnmken  Tommy  kick  his  servant  in  the  spleen,  and  the  whole 
British  Constitution  comes  down  about  our  ears!" 

"Very  true,  sir,  very  true!"  Inayat  Khan  leaned  forward. 
His  teeth  gleamed  in  the  dark  of  his  beard.  His  large;,  firm- 
featured  face  aboimded  in  good  sense  and  good  himiour.  *^How 
shall  a  man  see  justly  if  he  holds  the  telescope  wrong  way  xound, 
as  too  many  do  over  there?  It  also  remains  true,  however,  that 
the  manners  of  certain  Anglo-Indians  create  a  lot  of  bad  feeling. 
Your  so-called  reforms  do  not  interest  the  masses  or  touch  their 
imagination.  But  the  boot  of  the  low-class  European  touches 
their  backs  and  their  pride  and  hardens  their  hearts.  That  is 
only  human  nature.  In  the  East  a  few  gold  grains  of  courtesy 
touch  the  heart  more  than  a  handsome  Khillat  ^  of  political 
hotch-potch.  Myself  —  though  it  is  getting  dangerous  to  say 
so!  —  I  am  frankly  opposed  to  this  uncontrolled  passion  for 
reform.  When  all  have  done  their  duty  in  this  great  struggle, 
why  such  imdignified  clamour  for  rewards,  which  are  now  being 
^  Dress  of  honour. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  255 

flung  back  in  the  giver's  teeth?  It  has  become  a  vicious  circle.  It 
was  British  policy  in  the  first  place  —  not  so?  —  that  stirred  up 
this  superficial  ferment;  and  now  it  grows  alarming,  it  is  doctored 
with  larger  doses  of  the  same  medicine.  We  Indians,  who  know 
how  Uttle  the  bulk  of  India  has  really  changed,  could  laugh  at 
the  tamasJia  of  Western  fancy-dress,  in  small  matters;  but  time 
for  laughing  has  gone  by.  Time  has  come  for  saying  firmly  —  all 
rights  and  aspirations  will  be  granted,  stopping  short  of  actual 
government  —  otherwise  — ! " 

He  flung  up  his  hands,  looked  round  at  the  listening  faces,  and 
realised,  with  a  start,  how  completely  he  had  let  himself  go.  "  For- 
give me,  Colonel.  I  fear  I  am  talking  too  much,"  he  said  in  a 
changed  tone. 

"Indeed,  no,"  Colonel  Leigh  assured  him  warmly.  "In  these 
difficult  days,  loyal  and  courageous  friends  like  yourself  are  worth 
their  weight  in  gold  mohurs!" 

Visibly  flattered,  the  Moslem  surveyed  his  own  bulky  person 
with  a  twinkle  of  amusement.  "If  value  should  go  by  weight, 
Inayat  Khan  would  be  worth  a  king's  ransom !  But  I  assure  you. 
Colonel,  your  country  has  many  hundreds  of  friends  like  myself 
all  over  India,  if  only  she  would  seek  them  out  and  give  them  en- 
couragement —  as  Mr.  Sinclair  said  —  instead  of  wasting  it  on 
volubles  who  will  never  cease  making  trouble  till  India  is  in  a 
blaze." 

As  the  man's  patent  sincerity  had  warmed  the  hearts  of  his 
hearers,  so  the  pointed  truth  of  that  last  pricked  them  sharply 
and  probed  deep.  For  they  knew  themselves  powerless;  mere 
atoms  of  the  whirling  dust-cloud  raised,  in  passing,  by  the  chariot 
wheels  of  Progress  —  or  perdition? 

The  younger  men  rose  briskly,  as  if  to  shake  off  some  physical 
discomfort.  Dyan  —  very  much  aware  of  Aruna  and  the  sub- 
altern—  approached  them  with  a  friendly  remark.  Roy  and 
Lance  said,  "Play  up,  Thea!  Your  innings,"  almost  in  a  breath 
—  and  crooked  little  fingers. 

Thea  needed  no  second  bidding.  While  the  men  talked,  a 
vague,  insidious  depression  had  stolen  over  her  spirit  —  and 
brooded  there,  light  and  formless  as  a  river  mist.  Half  an  hour 


256  FAR  TO  SEEK 

with  her  fiddle,  and  Lance  at  his  best,  completely  charmed  it 
away.  But  the  creepiness  of  it  had  been  very  real:  and  the 
memory  remained. 

When  all  the  others  had  dispersed,  she  lingered  over  the  fire 
with  Roy,  while  Lance,  at  the  piano  —  with  diplomatic  intent  — 
drifted  into  his  friend's  favourite  Nocturne — the  Twelfth;  that 
inimitable  rendering  of  a  mood  —  hushed  yet  exalted,  soaring 
yet  brooding,  'the  sky  and  the  nest  as  well.'  The  two  near  the 
fire  knew  every  bar  by  heart,  but  as  the  liquid  notes  stole  out 
into  the  room,  their  fitful  talk  stopped  dead.  Lance  was  playing 
superbly,  giving  every  note  its  true  value;  the  cadence  rising  and 
falling  like  waves  of  a  still  sea;  softer  and  softer  till  the  last  note 
faded  away,  ghostlike  —  a  sigh  rather  than  a  sound. 

Roy  remained  motionless,  one  elbow  on  the  mantelpiece. 
Thea's  lashes  were  wet  with  the  tears  of  rarefied  emotion  — 
tears  that  neither  prick  nor  burn.  The  silence  itself  seemed  part 
of  the  music;  a  silence  it  were  desecration  to  break.  Without  a 
word  to  Roy  she  crossed  the  room,  kissed  Lance  good-night, 
clung  a  moment  to  his  hands,  that  had  woven  the  spell,  smiling 
her  thanks,  her  praise;  and  slipped  away  leaving  the  two  together. 

Roy  subsided  into  a  chair.  Lance  came  over  to  the  fire  and 
stood  there  warming  his  hands.  It  was  a  minute  or  two  before 
Roy  looked  up  and  nodded  his  acknowledgements. 

"You're  a  magician,  old  chap.  You  play  that  thing  a  damn 
sight  too  well." 

He  did  not  add  that  his  friend's  music  had  called  up  a  vision  of 
the  Home  drawing-room,  clear  in  every  detail;  Lance  at  the 
piano— his  last  week-end  from  Sandhurst  —  playing  the  'thing' 
by  request;  himself  lounging  on  the  hearthrug,  his  head  against 
his  mother's  knee;  the  very  feel  of  her  silk  skirt  against  his  cheek, 
of  her  fingers  on  his  hair  .  .  .  Nor  did  he  add  that  the  vision  had 
spurred  his  reluctant  spirit  to  a  resolve. 

The  more  practical  soul  of  Lance  Desmond  had  already 
dropped  back  to  earth,  as  a  lark  drops  after  pouring  out  its  heart 
in  the  blue.  In  spite  of  concern  for  Roy,  he  was  thinking  agam 
of  his  Sikhs. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  257 

"I  suppose  one  can  take  it,"  he  remarked  thoughtfully,  "that 
Vinx  and  Mayne  and  that  good  old  Moslem  johnny  know  what 
they're  talking  about?'* 

Roy  smiled — having  jrnnped  at  the  connection.  "  I'm  afraid," 
he  said,  "one  can." 

"You  think  big  trouble  is  coming  —  organised  trouble?" 

"  I  do.  That  is,  unless  some  *  strong  silent  man '  has  the  pluck  to 
put  his  foot  down  in  time,  and  chance  the  consequences  to  him- 
self.  Thank  God,  we've  another  John  Lawrence  in  the  Punjab." 

"And  it's  the  Punjab  that  matters  — " 

"Especially  a  certain  P.C.  Regiment  —  eh?" 

Lance  was  in  arms  at  once:  —  that  meant  he  had  touched 
the  spot.  "No  flies  on  the  Regiment.  Trust  Paul.  It's  only  — 
I  get  bothered  about  a  Sikh  here  and  there." 

Again  Roy  nodded.  "The  blighters  have  taken  particular 
pains  with  the  Sikhs.  ReaUsing  that  they'll  need  some  fighting 
stuff.  And  Lahore's  a  bad  place.  I  expect  they  sneak  off  to 
meetings  in  the  city." 

"Devil  a  doubt  of  it.  Mind  you,  I  trust  them  implicitly. 
But,  outside  their  own  line,  they're  credulous  as  childien — you 
know." 

"Rather.    In  Delhi,  I  had  a  fair  sample  of  it." 

Another  pause.  It  suddenly  occmred  to  Lance  that  his  pre- 
cious Sikhs  were  not  supposed  to  be  the  topic  of  the  evening. 
"  You're  quite  fit  again,  Roy.  And  those  blooming  fools  chucked 
you  like  a  cast  horse  —  "  He  broke  out  in  a  spurt  of  vexation. 
"  I  wish  to  God  you  were  back  with  your  old  Squadron." 

And  Roy  said  from  his  heart,  "I  wish  to  God  I  was." 

"Paul  misses  you,  though  he  never  says  much.  The  new  lot 
from  Home  are  good  chaps.  Full  of  brains  and  theories.  But  no 
knowledge.  Can't  get  at  the  men.  You  could  still  help,  unoffi- 
cially, in  all  sorts  of  ways.  —  Why  not  come  along  back  with  me 
on  the  third?  Haven't  you  been  pottering  round  here  long 
enough?" 

Roy  shook  his  head.  "Thanks  all  the  same,  for  the  invite  1 
Of  course  I'd  love  it.  But  —  I've  things  to  do.  There's  a  novel 
taking  shape  —  and  other  oddments.    I've  done  precious  little 


esS  FAR  TO  SEEK 

writing  here.  Too  much  entangled  with  human  destinies.  I  must 
bury  myself  somewhere  and  get  a  move  on.  April  it  is.  I  won't 
fail  you." 

Lance  kicked  an  imoff ending  log.  "  Confound  your  old  novel ! " 
—  A  portentous  silence.  "See  here,  Roy,  I  won't  badger  you. 
But  —  well  —  the  fact  is,  if  I'm  to  go  back  in  moderate  peace  of 
mind,  I  want  —  certain  guarantees." 

Roy  lifted  his  eyes.  Lance  frankly  encountered  them ;  and  there 
ensued  one  of  those  intimate  pauses  in  which  the  unspeakable  is 
said. 

Roy  looked  away.  "Aruna?"  He  let  fall  the  word  barely 
above  his  breath. 

"Just  that." 

"You're  frightened — both  of  you?  Oh,  yes — I've  seen — " 
He  fell  silent,  staring  into  the  fire.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was 
in  the  same  low,  detached  tone.  "You  two  needn't  worry.  The 
guarantee  you're  after  was  given  ...  in  July  1914  .  .  .  under  the 
beeches  ...  at  Home.  She  foresaw  —  understood.  But  she 
couldn't  foresee  .  . .  the  harder  tug  —  now  she's  gone.  The 
. .  .  association  .  .  .  and  all  that." 

"Isit  — only  that?" 

"  It's  mostly  that." 

To  Lance  Desmond,  very  much  a  man,  it  seemed  the  queerest 
state  of  things;  and  he  knew  only  a  fragment  of  the  truth, 

"Look  here,  Roy,"  he  urged  again.  "Wouldn't  the  Punjab 
really  be  best?  Aren't  you  plunging  a  bit  too  deep  —  ?  Does 
your  father  realise?  Thea  feels  — " 

"Yes,  Thea  feels,  bless  her!  But  there's  a  thing  or  two  she 
doesn't  know!"  He  Hfted  his  head  and  spoke  in  an  easier  voice. 
"One  queer  thing  —  it  may  interest  you.  Those  few  weeks  of 
living  as  a  native  among  natives  —  amazingly  intensified  all 
the  other  side  of  me.  I  never  felt  keener  on  the  Sinclair  heritage 
and  all  it  stands  for.  I  never  felt  keener  on  you  two  than  all  this 
time  while  I've  been  concentrating  every  faculty  on  —  the  other 
two.  Sounds  odd.  But  it's  a  fact." 

"Good.  And  does  —  your  cousin  know  —  about  the  guar- 
antee?" 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  C59 

**N-no.  That's  still  to  come." 

"When  —  ?" 

Roy  frankly  encountered  his  friend's  challenging  gaze.  "Damn 
you ! "  he  said  softly.  Then,  in  a  graver  tone :  "  You're  right.  I've 
been  shirking  it.  Seemed  a  shame  to  spoil  Christmas.  Remains 
—  the  New  Year.  I  fixed  it  up  —  while  you  were  playing  that 
thing,  to  be  exact." 

"Did  I  — contribute?" 

"You  did  —  if  that  gives  you  any  satisfaction!"  He  rose, 
stretched  himself  and  yawned  ostentatiously.  "My  God,  I  wish 
it  was  over." 

Desmond  said  nothing.  If  Roy  loved  him  more  for  one  quality 
than  another,  it  was  for  his  admirable  gift  of  silence. 


Chapter  XIV 

Yet  shall  I  bear  in  my  heart  this  honour  of 
the  burden  of  pain  —  this  gift  of  thine. 

Rabindranath  Tagore 

It  was  the  last  day  of  the  year;  the  last  moon  of  the  year  almost 
at  her  zenith.  Of  all  the  Christmas  guests  Lance  alone  remained; 
and  Thea  had  promised  him,  before  leaving,  a  moonlight  vision 
of  Amber,  the  Sleeping  Beauty  of  Rajasthan.  The  event  had 
been  delayed  till  now  partly  because  they  waited  on  the  moon; 
partly  because  they  did  not  want  it  to  be  a  promiscuous  affair. 

To  Thea's  lively  imagination  —  and  to  Roy's  no  less  —  Amber 
was  more  than  a  mere  city  of  ghosts  and  marble  halls.  It  was 
a  symbol  of  Rajput  womanhood  —  strong  and  beautiful,  with- 
drawn from  the  clamour  of  the  market-place,  given  over  to  her 
dreams  and  her  gods.  For  though  kings  have  deserted  Amber, 
the  gods  remain.  There  is  still  life  in  her  temples  and  the  blood 
of  sacrifice  on  her  altar  stones.  Therefore  she  must  not  be  ap- 
proached in  the  spirit  of  the  tourist.  And,  emphatically,  she  must 
not  be  approached  in  a  motor  car,  at  least  so  far  as  Thea's  guests 
were  concerned.  Of  course  one  knew  she  was  approached  by 
irreverent  cars;  also  by  tourists  —  unspeakable  ones,  who  made 
contemptible  jokes  about  *a  slump  in  house  property.'  But  for 
these  vandalisms  Thea  Leigh  was  not  responsible. 

Her  young  ones,  including  Captain  Martin,  would  ride;  but 
because  of  Aruna,  she  and  Vincent  must  submit  to  the  barouche. 
So  transparent  was  the  girl's  pleasure  at  being  included  that 
Thea's  heart  failed  her  —  knowing  what  she  knew. 

Roy  and  Lance  had  ridden  on  ahead;  out  through  the  fortified 
gates  into  the  open  desert,  strewn  with  tumbled  fragments  of  the 
jlory  that  was  Rajasthan.  There  where  courtiers  had  intrigued 
and  flattered,  crows  held  conference.  On  the  crumbling  arch  of  a 
doorway,  that  opened  into  emptiness,  a  vulture  brooded,  heavy 
with  feeding  on  those  who  had  (Ued  for  lack  of  food.  Knee-deep 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  261 

in  the  Man  Sagar  Lake  grey  cranes  sought  then-  meat  from  God; 
every  line  and  curve  of  them  repeated  in  the  quiet  water.  And 
there,  beside  a  ruined  shrine,  two  dead  cactus  bushes,  with  their 
stiff,  distorted  limbs,  made  Roy  think  suddenly  of  two  dead  Ger- 
mans he  had  come  upon  once  —  killed  so  swiftly  that  they  still 
retained,  in  death,  the  ghastly  semblance  of  life.  Why  the  devil 
couldn't  a  man  be  rid  of  them?  Dead  Germans  were  not  'in 
the  bond'  . .  . 

"Buck  up,  Lance,"  he  said  abruptly;  for  Desmond,  who  saw 
no  ghosts,  was  keenly  interested.  "  Let's  quit  this  place  of  skulls 
and  empty  eye-sockets.  Amber's  dead ;  but  not  utterly  decayed." 

He  knew.  He  had  ridden  out  alone  one  morning  in  the  light 
of  paling  stars,  to  watch  the  dawn  steal  down  through  the  valley 
and  greet  the  sleeping  city  that  would  never  wake  again;  half 
hoping  to  recapture  the  miracle  of  Chitor.  But  Amber  did  not 
enshrine  the  soul  of  his  mother's  race.  And  the  dawn  had  proved 
merely  a  dawn.  Moonlight,  with  its  eerie  enchantment,  would 
be  even  more  beautiful  and  fitting;  but  the  pleasure  of  anticipa- 
tion was  shadowed  by  his  resolve.  He  had  spoken  of  it  only  to 
Thea;  asking  her,  when  tea  was  over,  to  give  him  a  chance:  — 
and  now  he  was  heartily  wishing  he  had  chosen  any  other  place 
and  time  than  this  .  .  . 

The  brisk  canter  to  the  foothills  was  a  relief.  Thence  the  road 
climbed,  between  low,  reddish-grey  spurs,  to  the  narrow  pass, 
barred  by  a  formidable  gate  that  swung  open  at  command,  with 
a  screech  of  rusty  hinges,  as  if  in  querulous  protest  against  in- 
trusion. Another  gateway  —  and  yet  another:  then  they  were 
through  the  triple  wall  that  guards  the  dead  city  from  the 
invader  who  will  never  come,  while  both  races  honour  the 
pact  that  alone  saved  desperate,  stubborn  Rajputana  from 
extinction. 

Up  on  the  heights  it  was  still  day;  but  in  the  valley  it  was  al- 
most evening.  And  there  —  among  deepening  shadows  and  tum- 
bled fragments  of  hills  —  lay  Amber:  her  palace  and  temples  and 
broken  houses  crowding  round  their  sacred  Lake,  like  Queens 
and  their  handmaids  round  the  shield  of  a  dead  King. 

Descending  at  a  foot's  pace,  the  chill  of  emptiness  and  of  on- 


262  FAR  TO  SEEK 

coming  twilight  seemed  to  close  like  icy  fingers  on  Roy's  heart; 
though  the  death  of  Amber  was  as  nothing  to  the  death  of  Chitor. 

—  the  warrior-queen  ravished  and  violently  slain  by  Akbar's 
legions.  Amber  had,  as  it  were,  died  peacefully  in  her  sleep.  But 
there  remained  the  all-pervading  silence  and  emptiness:  —  her 
sorrowful  houses,  cleft  from  roof  to  roadway;  no  longer  homes 
of  men,  but  of  the  rock  pigeon,  the  peacock,  and  the  wild  boar; 
stones  of  her  crumbling  arches  thrust  apart  by  roots  of  acacia  and 
neem;  her  streets  choked  with  cactus  and  brushwood;  her  beauty 

—  disfigured  but  not  erased  —  reflected  in  the  unchanging  mu-- 
ror  of  the  Lake. 

If  Roy  and  Lance  had  talked  little  before,  they  talked  less 
now.  From  the  Lake-side  they  rode  up,  by  stone  pathways,  to 
the  Palace  of  stone  and  marble,  set  upon  a  jutting  rock  and  com- 
mandmg  the  whole  valley.  There,  m  the  quadrangle,  they  left 
the  horses  with  their  grooms,  who  were  skilled  in  cutting  cor- 
ners and  had  trotted  most  of  the  way. 

Close  to  the  gate  stood  a  temple  of  fretted  marble  —  neither 
ruined  nor  deserted;  for  within  were  the  priests  of  Kali,  and  the 
faint,  sickly  smell  of  blood.  Daybreak  after  daybreak,  for  cen- 
turies, the  severed  head  of  a  goat  had  been  set  before  her,  the 
warm  blood  offered  in  a  bronze  bowl . . . 

*Tah!  Beastly!"  muttered  Lance.  "I'd  sooner  have  no  re- 
ligion at  all." 

Roy  smiled  at  hun,  sidelong  — and  said  nothing.  It  was 
beastly:  but  it  matched  the  rest.  It  was  in  keeping  with  the 
dusky  rooms,  all  damp-encrusted,  the  narrow  passages  and 
screens  of  marble  tracery;  the  cloistered  hanging  garden,  be- 
yond the  women's  rooms,  their  baths  chiselled  out  of  naked 
rock.  And  the  beastliness  was  set  off  by  the  beauty  of  mlay  and 
carving  and  colour;  by  the  splendour  of  bronze  gates  and  marble 
pillars,  and  slabs  of  carven  granite  that  served  as  balustrade  to 
the  terraced  roof,  where  daylight  still  lingered  and  azure-necked 
peacocks  strutted,  serenely  immune. 

Seated  on  a  carven  slab,  they  looked  downward  into  the  heart 
of  desolation;  upward,  at  creeping  battlements  and  a  little  tem- 
ple of  Shiva  printed  sharply  on  the  light-filled  sky. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  263 

"Can't  you  feel  the  ghosts  of  them  all  round  you?"  whispered 
Roy. 

"No,  thank  God,  I  can't,"  said  practical  Lance,  taking  out  a 
cigarette.  But  a  rustle  of  falling  stones  made  him  start  —  the 
merest  fraction.  "Perhaps  smoke'U  keep  'em  off  —  like  mos- 
quitoes!" he  added  hopefully. 

But  Roy  paid  no  heed.  He  was  looking  down  into  the  hollow 
shell  of  that  which  had  been  Amber.  Not  a  human  sound  any- 
where; nor  any  stir  of  Hfe  but  the  soft,  ceaseless  kuru-kooing 
doves  that  nested  and  mated  in  those  dusky  inner  rooms,  where 
Queens  had  mated  with  Kings. 

"Thou  hast  made  of  a  city  an  heap;  of  a  defencM  city  a  ruin 
.  .  .  Their  houses  shall  be  full  of  doleful  creatures;  and  owls  shall 
dwell  there,  and  satyrs  shall  dance  there,"  he  quoted  softly;  add- 
ing, after  a  pause,  "Mother  had  a  great  weakness  for  old  Isaiah. 
She  used  to  say  he  and  the  minor  prophets  knew  all  about  Rajas- 
than.  The  owls  of  Amber  are  blue  pigeons.  But  I  hope  she's 
spared  the  satyrs." 

"Globe-trotters!"  suggested  Lance. 

"Or  'Piffers'  devoid  of  reverence!"  retorted  Roy.  —  "PIuUoI 
Here  come  the  others." 

Footsteps  and  voices  in  the  quadrangle  waked  hollow  echoes 
as  when  a  stone  drops  into  a  well.  Presently  they  sounded  on  the 
stairs  near  by;  Flossie's  rather  boisterous  laugh;  Martin  chaflSng 
her  in  his  husky  tones. 

"  Great  sport!  Let's  rent  it  off  H.H.  and  gather  'em  all  in  from 
the  highways  and  hedges  for  a  masked  fancy  ball!" 

Roy  stood  up  and  squared  his  shoulders.  "Satyrs'  dancing, 
with  a  vengeance!"  said  he;  but  the  gleam  of  Aruna's  sari  smote 
him  silent.  A  band  seemed  to  tighten  round  his  heart . . , 

Before  tea  was  over,  peacocks  and  pigeons  had  gdne  to  roost 
among  the  trees  that  shadowed  the  Lake;  and  the  light  behind 
the  hills  had  passed  swiftly  from  gold  to  flame  colour,  from  flame 
colour  to  rose.  For  the  sun,  that  had  already  departed  in  effect, 
was  now  setting  in  fact. 

"Hush  —  it's  coming,"  murmured  Thea;  —  and  it  came. 


264  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Hollow  thuds,  quickening  to  a  vibrant  roar,  swelled  up  from 
the  temple  in  the  courtyard  below.  The  Brahmins  were  beating 
the  great  tom-tom  before  Kali's  Shrine, 

It  was  the  signal.  It  startlingly  waked  the  dead  city  to  shrill, 
discordant  life.  Groanings  and  bowlings  and  clash  ings  as  of  To- 
phet  were  echoed  and  re-echoed  from  every  temple,  every  shrine; 
an  orgy  of  demoniac  sounds;  blurred  in  transit  through  the  empty 
rooms  beneath;  pierced  at  intervals  by  the  undulating  wail  of 
rams'  horns;  the  two  reiterate  notes  wandering,  like  lost  souls, 
through  a  confused  blare  of  c)mabals  and  bagpipes  and  all  kinds 
of  music. 

Flossie,  with  a  bewitching  grimace  at  Martin,  clapped  both 
hands  over  her  ears.  Roy  —  standing  by  the  balustrade  with 
Aruna  —  was  aware  of  an  answering  echo  somewhere  in  subcon- 
scious depths,  as  the  discords  rose  and  fell  above  the  throbbing 
undernote  of  the  drum.  It  was  as  if  the  clamant  voices  of  the 
East  cried  out  to  the  blood  in  his  veins:  'You  are  of  us  —  do 
what  you  will;  go  where  you  will.'  And  all  the  while  his  eyes 
never  left  Aruna's  half-averted  face. 

Sudden  and  clear  from  the  heights  came  a  ringing  peal  of  bells 
—  as  it  were  the  voices  of  angels  answering  the  wail  of  devils  in 
torment.  It  was  from  the  Uttle  Shrine  of  Shiva  close  against  the 
ramparts  etched  in  outline  above  the  dark  of  the  hills. 

Aruna  turned  and  looked  up  at  him.  "Too  beautiful!"  she 
whispered. 

He  nodded,  and  flung  out  an  arm.  "Look  there!" 

Low  and  immense  —  pale  in  the  pallor  of  the  eastern  sky  — 
the  moon  hung  poised  above  massed  shadows,  like  a  wraith  es- 
caped from  the  city  of  death.  Moment  by  moment,  she  drew 
light  from  the  vanished  sun.  Moment  by  moment,  under  their 
watching  eyes,  she  conjured  the  formless  dark  into  a  new  heaven, 
a  new  earth  .  .  . 

"Would  you  be  afraid  —  to  stroll  round  a  little  —  with  me?" 
he  asked. 

"Afraid?  I  would  love  it  — if  Thea  will  allow."  This  time 
she  did  not  look  up. 

Vincent  and  Thea  were  sitting  a  little  farther  along  the  balus- 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  265 

trade;  Lance  beside  them,  imbibing  tales  of  Rajasthan.  Flossie 
and  her  Captain  had  already  disappeared. 

"/'m  going  to  be  frankly  a  Goth  and  flash  my  electric  torch 
into  holes  and  comers,"  Lance  annoimced  as  the  other  two  came 
up.  "I  bar  being  intimidated  by  ghosts." 

"We're  not  going  to  be  intimidated  either,"  said  Roy,  ad- 
dressing himself  to  Thea.  "And  I  guarantee  not  to  let  Anina  be 
spirited  away." 

Vincent  shot  a  look  at  his  wife.  "Don't  wander  too  far,"  said 
he. 

"And  don't  hang  about  too  long,"  she  added.  "It'll  be  cold 
going  home." 

Though  he  was  standing  close  to  her,  she  could  say  no  more. 
But,  under  cover  of  the  dusk,  her  hand  found  his  and  closed  on  it 
hard. 

The  characteristic  impulse  heartened  him  amazingly,  as  he 
followed  Aruna  down  the  ghostly  stairway,  through  marble 
cloisters  into  the  hanging  garden,  misted  with  moonhght,  fra- 
grant with  orange-trees. 

And  now  there  was  more  than  Thea's  hand-clasp  to  uphold 
him.  Gradually  there  dawned  on  him  a  faint  yet  sure  intima- 
tion of  his  mother's  presence,  of  her  tenderly  approving  love: 
—  dim'  to  his  brain,  yet  as  sensible  to  his  innermost  spirit  as 
light  and  warmth  to  his  material  body.  It  did  not  last  many 
moments;  but  —  as  in  all  contact  with  her  —  the  clear  after- 
certainty  remained  .  .  . 

Exactly  what  he  intended  to  say  he  did  not  know  even  now. 
To  speak  the  cruel  truth,  yet  by  some  means  to  soften  the  edge  of 
its  cruelty  —  the  thing  seemed  impossible.  But  nerved  by  this 
vivid  exalted  sense  of  her  nearness,  the  right  moment,  the  right 
words  could  be  trusted  to  come  of  themselves  .  .  . 

And  Aruna,  walking  beside  him  in  a  hushed  expectancy,  was 
remembering  that  other  night,  so  strangely  far  away,  when  they 
had  walked  alone  under  the  same  moon,  and  assurance  of  his  love 
had  so  possessed  her,  that  she  had  very  nearly  broken  her  brave 
little  chirdgh.  And  to-night  —  how  different!  Her  very  love  for 
him.,  though  the  same,  was  not  quite  the  same.  It  seemed  to  de- 


266  FAR  TO  SEEK 

pend  not  at  all  on  nearness  or  response.  Starved  of  both,  it  had 
grown  not  less,  but  more. 

From  a  primitive  passion  it  had  become  a  rarefied  emotional 
atmosphere  in  which  she  lived  and  moved.  And  this  garden  of 
eerie  lights  and  shadows  was  saturated  with  it;  thronged,  to  her 
fancy,  with  ghosts  of  dead  passions  and  intrigues,  of  dead  Queens, 
in  whom  the  twin  flames  of  love  and  courage  could  be  quenched 
only  by  flames  of  the  funeral  pyre.  Their  blood  ran  in  her  veins 

—  and  in  his  too.  That  closeness  of  belonging  none  could  snatch 
from  her.  About  the  other,  she  was  growing  woefully  uncertain, 
as  day  followed  day,  and  still  no  word.  Was  there  trouble  after 
all?  Would  he  speak  to-night  .  .  .  ? 

They  had  reached  a  dark  doorway;  and  he  was  trying  the 
handle.  It  opened  inwards. 

"I'm  keen  to  go  a  little  way  up  the  hillside,"  he  said,  forcing 
himself  to  break  a  silence  that  was  growing  oppressive.  "To  get 
a  sight  of  the  Palace  with  the  moon  full  on  it.  We'll  be  cautious 

—  not  go  too  far." 

"I  am  ready  to  go  an3rwhere,"  she  answered;  and  the  fervour 
of  that  simple  statement  told  him  she  was  not  thinking  of  liill- 
sides  any  more  than  he  was  —  at  the  back  of  his  mind. 

Silence  was  unkinder  than  speech;  and  as  they  passed  out  into 
the  open  he  scanned  the  near  prospect  for  a  convenient  spot. 
Not  far  above  them  a  fragment  of  ruined  wall,  overhung  by  trees, 
ended  in  a  broken  arch;  its  lingering  keystone  threatened  by  a 
bird-borne  acacia.  A  fallen  slab  of  stone,  half  under  it,  offered 
a  not  too  distant  seat.  Slab  and  arch  were  in  full  Hght;  the 
space  beyond  engulfed  in  shadow.  Far  up  the  hillside  a  jackal 
laughed.  Across  the  valley  another  answered  it.  A  monkey 
swung  from  a  branch  on  to  the  slab,  and  sat  there  engaged  in  his 
toilet  —  a  very  imp  of  darkness. 

"Not  be-creeped  —  are  you?"  Roy  asked. 

"Just  the  littlest  bit!  Nice  kind  of  creeps.  I  feel  quite  safe  — 
with  you." 

The  path  was  rough  in  parts.  Once  she  stumbled  and  his  hand 
closed  lightly  on  her  arm  under  the  cloak.  She  felt  safe  with  him 

—  and  he  must  turn  and  smite  her  —  1 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  267 

At  their  approach  the  monkey  fled  with  a  gibbering  squeak: 
and  Roy  loosened  his  hold.  Between  them  and  the  Lake  loomed 
the  noble  bulk  of  the  Palace;  roof  terraces  and  fagades  bathed 
in  silver  splashed  with  indigo  shadow;  but  for  them  —  mere 
man  and  woman — its  imperishable  strength  and  beauty  had  sud- 
denly become  a  very  little  thing.  They  scarcely  noticed  it  even. 

"There  —  sit,"  Roy  said  softly;  and  she  obeyed. 

Her  smile  mutely  invited  him;  but  he  could  not  trust  himself  — 
yet.  He  might  have  known  the  moonlight  would  go  to  his  head. 

"Aruna  —  my  dear — "  He  plunged  without  preamble.  "I 
took  you  away  from  them  all  because  —  well  —  we  can't  pretend 
any  more  —  you  and  I.  It's  fate  —  and  there  we  are.  I  love  you 
—  dearly  —  truly.  But  — " 

How  could  one  go  on? 

"Oh,  Royl" 

Her  lifted  gaze,  her  low,  impassioned  cry  told  all;  and  before 
that  too  clear  revealing  his  hard-won  resolution  quailed. 

"No  —  not  that.  I  don't  deserve  it,"  he  broke  out,  lashing 
himself  and  startling  her.  "I've  been  a  rank  coward  —  letting 
things  drift.  But  honestly  I  hadn't  the  conceit  —  we  were  cous- 
ins —  it  seemed  natural.  And  now  —  //rw/" 

A  stupid  catch  in  his  throat  arrested  him.  She  sat  motionless; 
never  a  word. 

Impulsively  he  dropped  on  one  knee,  to  be  nearer,  yet  not  too 
near.  "Aruna  —  I  don't  know  how  to  say  it.  The  fact  is  . . . 
they  were  afraid,  at  Home,  if  I  came  out  here,  I  might  —  it 
might .  . .  Well,  just  what's  come  to  us,"  he  blurted  out  in  des- 
peration. "And  Mother  told  me  frankly  —  it  mustn't  be,  twice 
running  —  like  that."  Her  stillness  dismayed  him.  "  Dear,"  he 
urged  tenderly,  "you  see  their  difficulty  —  you  understand?" 

"  I  am  trying  —  to  understand."  Her  voice  was  small  and  con- 
tained. The  courage  and  control  of  it  unsteadied  him  more  than 
any  passionate  protest.  Yet  he  hurried  on  in  the  same  low  toner 

"Of  course,  I  ought  to  have  thought.  But,  as  I  say,  it  seemed 
natural .  .  .  Only  —  on  Dewali-night  — " 

She  caught  her  breath.  "Yes  —  Dewdli-night.  Mai  Lakshmi 
knew.  Why  didyoxxnoi^yiiUieti?" 


s?68  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Well  —  so  soon  —  I  wasn't  sure  ...  I  hoped  going  away 
might  give  us  both  a  chance.  It  seemed  the  best  I  could  do,"  he 
pleaded.  "  And  —  there  was  Dyan.  I'm  not  vamping  up  excuses, 
Aruna.  If  you  hate  me  for  hurting  you  so  — " 

"Roy  —  you  shall  not  say  it!"  she  cried,  roused  at  last. 
"  Could  I  hate  —  the  heart  in  my  own  body?  " 

"Better  for  us  both,  perhaps,  if  you  could!"  he  jerked  out, 
rising  abruptly,  not  daring  to  let  the  full  force  of  her  confession 
sink  in,  "But  —  because  of  my  father,  I  promised.  No  getting 
over  that." 

She  was  silent:  —  a  silence  more  moving,  more  compelling 
than  speech.  Was  she  wondering  —  had  he  not  promised  .  .  .  ? 
Was  he  certain  himself?  Near  enough  to  swear  by;  and  the  im- 
pulse to  comfort  her  was  overwhelming. 

"If  —  if  things  had  been  different,  Aruna,"  he  added  with  ■ 
grave  tenderness,  "  of  course  I  would  be  asking  you  now  ...  to 
be  my  wife." 

At  that,  the  tension  of  her  control  seemed  to  snap;  and  hiding 
her  face,  she  sat  there  shaken  all  through  with  muffled,  broken- 
hearted sobs. 

"Don't  —  oh,  don'tl"  he  cried  low,  his  own  nerves  quivering 
with  her  pain. 

"How  can  I  not?"  she  wailed,  battling  with  fresh  sobs.  "Be- 
cause of  your  Indian  mother  —  I  hoped  —  But  for  me  —  Eng- 
land-returned—  no  hope  anywhere:  no  true  country  now;  no 
true  belief;  no  true  home;  everything  divided  in  two;  only  my 
heart — not  divided.  And  that  you  cannot  have,  even  if  you 
would — " 

Tears  threatened  again.  It  was  all  he  could  do  not  to  take  her 
in  his  arms.  "If  —  if  they  would  only  leave  me  alone,"  she  went 
on,  clenching  her  small  hands  to  steady  herself.  "But  impossible 
to  change  all  the  laws  of  our  religion  for  one  worthless  me.  They 
will  insist  I  shall  marry  —  even  Dyan;  and  I  cannot  —  I  catir- 
not— I" 

Suddenly  there  sprang  an  inspiration,  born  of  despair,  of  the 
chance  and  the  hour,  and  the  grave  tenderness  of  his  assurance. 
No  time  for  shrinking  or  doubt.  Impulse  and  action  were  one.  ^ 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  269 

Almost  in  speaking  she  was  on  her  feet;  her  cloak  —  that  had 
come  unlinked  —  dropped  from  her  shoulders,  leaving  her  a  slim 
strip  of  pallor,  like  a  ray  of  light  escaped  from  clouds. 

"Roy  —  Dilkusha!"  Involuntarily  her  hands  went  out  to 
him.  "If  it  is  true  .  .  .  you  are  caring —  and  if  I  must  not  be- 
long to  you,  there  is  a  way  you  can  belong  to  me  without  trou- 
ble for  anyone.  If  —  if  we  make  pledge  of  betrothal ...  for  this 
one  night;  if  you  hold  me  this  one  hour  ...  I  am  safe.  For  me 
that  pledge  would  be  sacred  —  as  marriage,  because  I  am  still 
Hindu.  Perhaps  I  am  punished  for  far-away  sins  —  not  worthy 
to  be  wife  and  mother;  but,  by  my  pledge,  I  can  remain  always 
Swami  Bakht  —  worshipper  of  my  lord  ...  a  widow  in  my 
heart." 

And  Roy  stood  before  her  —  motionless;  stirred  all  through  by 
the  thrill  of  her  exalted  passion,  of  her  strange  appeal;  the  pathos 
—  the  nobiUty  of  it  —  swept  him  a  little  off  his  feet.  It  seemed  as 
if,  till  to-night,  he  had  scarcely  known  her.  The  Eastern  in  him 
said,  'Accept.'  The  Englishman  demurred  —  'Unfair  to  her.' 

"My  dear"  —  he  said  —  "I  can  refuse  you  nothing.  But  — 
is  it  right?   You  should  marry  — " 

"Don't  trouble  your  mind  for  me,'*  she  murmured;  and  her 
eyes  never  left  his  face.  "If  I  keep  out  of  purdah,  becoming 
Brahmo  Samaj  .  .  .  perhaps — "  She  drew  in  her  full  lower  Up  to 
steady  it.  "But  the  marriage  of  arrangement  —  I  cannot.  I 
have  read  too  many  English  books,  thought  too  many  English 
thoughts.  And  I  know  in  here"  —  one  clenched  hand  smote  her 
breast  —  "that  now  I  could  not  give  my  body  and  life  to  any 
man,  unless  heart  and  mind  are  given  too.  And  for  me  —  Must  I 
tell  all?  It  is  not  only  these  few  weeks.  It  is  years  and  years— " 
Her  voice  broke. 

"Aruna!  Dearest  one — " 

He  opened  his  arms  to  her  —  and  she  was  on  his  breast.  Close 
and  tenderly  he  held  her,  putting  a  strong  constraint  on  himself 
lest  her  ecstasy  of  surrender  should  bear  down  all  his  defences. 
To  fail  her  like  this  was  a  bitter  thing:  and  as  her  arms  stole  up 
round  his  neck,  he  instinctively  tightened  his  hold.  So  yielding 
she  was,  so  unsubstantial ...  '' 


270  FAR  TO  SEEK 

And  suddenly,  a  rush  of  memory  wafted  him  from  the  moon- 
lit hillside  to  the  drawing-room  at  Home.  It  was  his  mother 
he  held  against  his  breast:  —  the  silken  draperies,  the  clinging 
arms,  the  yielding  softness,  the  unyielding  courage  at  the  core 
...  So  vivid,  so  poignant  was  the  lightning  gleam  of  illusion, 
that  when  it  passed  he  felt  dizzy,  as  if  his  body  had  been  swept  in 
the  wake  of  his  spirit,  a  thousand  leagues  and  back:  —  dizzy, 
yet,  in  some  mysterious  fashion,  re-enforced  —  assured  .  .  . 

He  knew  now  that  his  defences  would  hold  .  .  . 

And  Aruna,  utterly  at  rest  in  his  arms,  knew  it  also.  He  loved 
her  —  oh,  yes,  truly  —  as  much  as  he  said  and  more;  but  in- 
stinct told  her  there  lacked  .  .  .  just  something,  something  that 
would  have  set  him  —  and  her  —  on  fire,  and  perhaps  have 
made  renunciation  unthinkable.  Her  acute,  instinctive  sense  of 
it  hurt  like  the  edge  of  a  knife  pressed  on  her  heart;  yet  just  en- 
abled her  to  bear  the  unbearable.  Had  it  been  .  .  .  that  way,  to 
lose  him  were  utter  loss.  This  way  —  there  would  be  no  losing. 
What  she  had  now,  she  would  keep  —  whether  his  bodily  pres- 
ence were  with  her  or  no  .  .  . 

Next  minute,  she  dropped  from  the  heights.  Fire  ran  in  her 
veins.  His  lips  were  on  her  forehead. 

"  The  seal  of  betrothal,"  he  whispered.  *'  My  brave  Aruna  — " 
Without  a  word  she  put  up  her  face  like  a  child;  but  it  was  very 
woman  who  yielded  her  lips  to  his  .  .  . 

For  her,  in  that  supreme  moment,  the  years  that  were  past 
and  the  years  that  were  to  come  seemed  gathered  into  a  burnt 
offering  —  laid  on  his  shrine.  For  her,  that  long  kiss  held  much 
of  passion  —  confessed  yet  transcended ;  more  of  sacredness,  in- 
expressible, because  it  would  never  come  again  —  with  him  or 
any  other  man.  She  vowed  it  silently  to  her  own  heart  .  .  . 

Again  far  up  the  hillside  a  jackal  laughed;  another  and  an- 
other —  as  if  in  derision.  She  shivered;  and  he  loosed  his  hold, 
still  keeping  an  arm  round  her.  To-night  they  w^ere  betrothed. 
He  owed  her  all  he  had  the  right  to  give. 

"Your  cloak.  You'll  catch  your  death..."  He  stopped 
short  —  and  flung  up  his  head.  "What  was  that?  There  — 
again  —  in  those  trees  — " 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  «7l 

"Some  monkey,  perhaps,"  she  whispered,  startled  by  his  look 
and  tone. 

"Hush  —  Listen!"  His  grip  tightened  and  they  stood  rigidly 
still,  Roy  straining  every  nerve  to  locate  those  stealthy  soimds. 
They  were  almost  under  the  arch;  strong,  mellow  hght  on  one 
side,  nethermost  darkness  on  the  other.  And  from  all  sides  the 
large,  unheeded  night  seemed  to  close  in  on  them  —  threaten- 
ing, full  of  hidden  danger. 

Presently  the  sounds  came  again,  unmistakeably  nearer;  faint 
rustlings  and  creakings,  then  a  distinct  crumbling,  as  of  loosened 
earth  and  stones.  The  shadowy  plumes  of  acacia  that  crowned 
the  arch  stirred  perceptibly,  though  no  breeze  was  abroad:  —  and 
not  the  acacia  only.  To  Aruna's  excited  fancy  it  seemed  that 
the  loose  upper  stones  of  the  arch  itself  moved  ever  so  slightly. 
But  was  it  fancy?  No  —  there  again  — ! 

And  before  the  truth  dawned  on  Roy,  she  had  pushed  him  with 
all  her  force,  so  violently  that  he  stiunbled  backward  and  let  go 
of  her. 

Before  he  recovered  himself,  down  crashed  two  large  stones 
and  a  shower  of  small  ones  —  on  Aruna,  not  on  him.  With  a 
stifled  scream  she  tottered  and  fell,  knocking  her  head  against 
the  slab  of  rock. 

Instantly  he  was  on  his  knees  beside  her;  staunching  the  cut 
on  her  forehead,  that  was  bleeding  freely,  binding  it  with  his 
handkerchief;  consumed  with  rage  and  concern;  rage  at  himself 
and  the  dastardly  intruder:  —  no  monkey,  that  was  certain.  His 
quick  ear  caught  the  stealthy  rustling  again,  lower  down;  and 
yes  —  unmistakeably  —  a  himian  sound,  like  a  stifled  exclama- 
tion of  dismay. 

"Aruna  — I  must  get  at  that  devil,"  he  whispered.  "Does 
yom-  head  feel  better?  Dare  I  leave  you  a  moment?" 

"Yes  — oh,  yes,"  she  whispered  back.  "Nothing  will  harm 
me.  Only  take  care  —  please  take  care." 

Hastily  he  made  a  pillow  of  his  overcoat  and  covered  her  with 
the  cloak;  then,  stooping  down,  he  kissed  her  fervently  —  and 
was  gone. 


Chapter  XV 

Then  was  I  rapt  away  by  the  impulse,  one 
Immeasurable  .  .  .  wave  of  a  need 
To  abolish  that  detested  life. 

R,  Browning 

Lithe  and  noiseless  as  a  cat,  Roy  crept  through  the  archway 
into  outer  darkness.  It  was  hateful  lea\dng  Aruna;  but  rage  at 
her  hurt  and  the  primitive  instinct  of  pursuit  were  not  to  be 
denied.  And  she  might  have  been  killed.  And  she  had  done  it 
for  him:  —  coals  of  fire,  indeed!  Also,  the  others  would  be  get- 
ting anxious.  Let  him  only  catch  that  mysterious  skulker,  and 
he  could  shout  across  to  the  Palace  roof.  They  would  hear. 

Close  under  the  wall  he  waited,  all  the  scout  in  him  alert.  The 
cautious  rustlmgs  drew  stealthily  nearer;  ceased,  for  a  few  tan- 
taHsing  seconds;  then,  out  of  the  massed  shadows,  there  crept  a 
moving  shadow. 

Roy's  spring  was  calculated  to  a  nicety;  but  the  thing  swerved 
sharply  and  fled  up  the  rough  hillside.  There  followed  a  ghostly 
chase,  unreal  as  a  nightmare,  lit  up  by  the  moon's  deceptive  bril- 
liance; the  earth,  an  unstable  welter  of  light  and  darkness,  shift- 
ing imder  his  feet. 

The  fleeing  shade  was  agile;  and  plainly  familiar  with  the 
ground.  Baulked,  and  lured  steadily  farther  from  Aruna,  all 
the  Rajput  flamed  in  Roy.  During  those  mad  moments  he 
•was  capable  of  murdering  the  vmknown  with  his  hands  ... 

Suddenly,  blessedly,  the  thing  stumbled  and  dropped  to  its 
knees.  With  the  spring  of  a  panther,  he  was  on  it,  his  fingers  at 
its  throat,  pinning  it  to  earth.  The  choking  cry  moved  him  not 
at  all:  — and  suddenly  the  moonlight  showed  him  the  face  ol 
Chandranath;  mingled  hate  and  terror  in  the  starting  eyes  .  ._ . 

Amazed  beyond  measure,  he  unconsciously  relaxed  his  grip. 
"  You  —  is  it?  —  you  devil ! " 

There  was  no  answer.  Chandranath  had  had  the  w't  to  wriggle 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  273 

almost  clear  of  him  —  almost,  not  quite.  Roy*s  poimce  was 
worthy  of  his  Rajput  ancestors;  and  next  moment  they  were 
locked  in  a  silent,  purposeful  embrace  .  .  . 

But  Roy's  brain  was  cooler  now.  Sanity  had  returned.  He 
could  still  have  choked  the  life  out  of  the  man  without  com- 
pimction.  But  he  did  not  choose  to  embroil  himself,  or  his  peo- 
ple, on  account  of  anything  so  contemptible  as  the  creature 
that  was  writhing  and  scratching  in  his  grasp.  He  simply 
wanted  to  secure  him  and  hand  him  over  to  the  Jaipur  authori- 
ties^ who  had  several  scores  up  against  him. 

But  Chandranath,  though  not  skilled,  had  the  ready  cunning 
of  the  lesser  breeds.  With  a  swift,  unexpected  move,  he  tripped 
Roy  up  so  that  he  nearly  fell  backward;  and,  in  a  supreme 
effort  to  keep  his  balance,  he  unconsciously  loosened  his  hold. 
This  time,  Chandranath  slipped  free  of  him;  and,  in  the  act, 
pushed  him  so  violently  that  he  staggered  and  came  down  among 
sharp  broken  stones  with  one  foot  twisted  under  him.  When  he 
would  have  spnmg  up,  a  stab  of  pain  in  his  ankle  told  him  he 
was  done  for  .  .  . 

The  sheer  ignominy  of  it  enraged  him;  and  he  was  still  further 
enraged  by  the  proceedings  of  the  victor,  who  sprang  nimbly  out 
of  reach  on  to  a  fragment  of  buttressed  wall,  whence  he  let  fly  3 
string  of  abusive  epithets  nicely  calculated  to  touch  up  Roy'- 
pride  and  temper  and  goad  him  to  helpless  fiu-y. 

But  if  his  ankle  was  crippled,  his  brain  was  not.  While  Chan- 
dranath indulged  his  pent-up  spite,  Roy  was  feeling  stealthily, 
pmposefully,  in  the  semi-darkness,  for  the  sharpest  chunk  of 
stone  he  could  lay  hands  on;  a  chimk  warranted  to  hurt  badly, 
if  nothing  more.  The  strip  of  shadow  against  the  sky  made  an 
admirable  target;  and  Roy's  move,  when  it  came,  was  swift,  his 
aim  imerring. 

Somewhere  about  the  head  or  shoulders  it  took  effect:  a  yell  of 
rage  and  pain  assured  him  of  that,  as  his  target  vanished  on  the 
far  side  of  the  wall.  Had  he  jumped  or  fallen?  And  what  did  the 
damage  amount  to?  Roy  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  know; 
but  he  had  neither  time  nor  power  to  investigate.  Nothing  for  it 
but  to  crawl  back  —  and  shout  to  Anina,  when  he  got  within  hail. 


274  FAR  TO  SEEK 

It  was  an  undignified  performance.  His  twisted  ankle  stabbed 
like  a  knife,  and  never  failed  to  claim  acquaintance  with  every 
obstacle  in  its  path.  Presently,  to  his  immense  rehef,  the  dark- 
ness ahead  was  raked  by  a  restless  light,  zigzaggmg  like  a  giant 
glow-worm. 

"Lance  —  ahoy!"  he  shouted. 

"  Righto  I "  Lance  sang  out ;  and  the  glow-worm  waggled  a  wel- 
come. 

Another  shout  from  the  Palace  roof,  answered  in  concert;  — 
and  the  mad,  bad  dream  was  over.  He  was  back  in  the  world 
of  realities ;  on  his  feet  again  —  one  foot,  to  be  exact  —  supported 
by  Desmond's  arm;  pouring  out  his  tale. 

Lance  already  knew  part  of  it.  He  had  found  Aruna  and  was 
hurrying  on  to  find  Roy.  "Your  cousin's  got  the  pluck  of  a  Raj- 
put," he  concluded.  "But  she  seems  a  bit  damaged.  The  left 
arm's  broken,  I'm  afraid." 

Roy  cursed  freely.  "Wish  to  God  I  could  make  sure  if  I've 
sent  that  skimk  to  blazes." 

"  Just  as  well  you  can't,  perhaps.  If  your  shot  took  effect,  the 
skunk  won't  be  off  in  a  hurry.   The  poUce  can  nip  out  when  we 

get  back." 

"Look  here  —  keep  it  dark  till  I've  seen  Dydn.  If  Chandra- 
nath's  nabbed,  he'll  want  to  be  in  it.  Only  fair!" 

Lance  chuckled.  "What  an  unholy  pair  you  are!  — By  the 
way,  I  fancy  Martin's  pulled  it  off  with  Miss  Flossie.  I  tumbled 
across  them  in  the  hanging  garden.  You  left  that  door  open. 
Gave  me  the  tip  you  might  be  out  on  the  loose." 

Desmond's  surmise  proved  correct.  Aruna's  left  arm  was 
broken  above  the  elbow:  a  simple  fracture,  but  it  hurt  a  good 
deal.  Thea,  in  charge  of  '  the  wounded,'  eased  them  both  as  best 
she  could,  during  the  long  drive  home.  But  Aruna,  still  in  her 
exalted  mood,  counted  mere  pain  a  little  thing,  when  Roy,  under 
cover  of  the  cloak,  found  her  cold  right  hand  and  cherished  it  m 
his  warm  one  nearly  all  the  way. 

No  one  paid  much  heed  to  Martin  and  Flossie,  who  felt  pri- 
vately annoyed  with  'the  native  cousin'  for  putting  her  nose  out 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  275 

of  joint.  Defrauded  of  her  due  importance,  she  told  her  com- 
placent lover  they  must  'save  up  the  news  till  to-morrow.' 
Meantime,  they  rode,  very  much  at  leisure,  behind  the  ba- 
rouche; —  and  no  one  troubled  about  them  at  all. 

Lance  and  Vincent,  having  cantered  on  ahead,  called  in  for 
Miss  Hammond  and  left  word  at  Sir  Lakshman's  house  that 
Aruna  had  met  with  a  slight  accident;  and  would  he  and  her 
brother  come  out  to  the  Residency  after  dinner. 

Before  the  meal  was  over,  they  arrived.  Miss  Hammond  was 
upstairs  attending  to  Aruna;  and  Sir  Lakshman  jomed  them 
without  ceremony,  leaving  Dy£n  alone  with  Roy,  who  was 
nursing  his  ankle  in  an  armchair  near  the  drawing-room  fire.  In 
ten  minutes  of  intimate  talk  he  heard  the  essential  facts,  with 
reservations;  and  Roy  had  never  felt  more  closely  akin  to  him 
than  on  that  evening.  Rajput  chivahry  is  no  mere  tradition.  It 
is  vital  and  active  as  ever  it  was.  Insult  or  injury  to  a  woman  is 
sternly  avenged;  and  the  offender  is  lucky  if  he  escapes  the  ex- 
treme penalty.  Roy  frankly  hoped  he  had  iaflicted  it  himself. 
But  for  Dyan  surmise  was  not  enough.  He  would  not  eat  or 
sleep  till  he  had  left  his  own  mark  on  the  man  who  had  come 
near  killing  his  sister  —  most  sacred  being  to  him,  who  had 
neither  wife  nor  mother. 

"The  delicate  attention  was  meant  for  me,  you  know,"  Roy 
reminded  him;  simply  from  a  British  impulse  to  give  the  devil 
his  due. 

"Tcha!"  Dydn's  thumb  and  finger  snapped  Uke  a  toy  pistol. 
"No  law-courts  talk  for  me.  You  were  so  close  together.  He 
took  the  risk.  By  Indra,  he  won't  take  any  more  such  risks  if  I 
get  at  him !  You  said  we  would  not  see  him  here.  But  no  doubt 
he  has  been  hanging  roimd  Amber,  making  what  mischief  he  can. 
He  must  have  heard  your  party  was  coming;  and  got  sneaking 
round  for  a  chance  to  score  off  you.  Yoimg  Ramanimd,  priest  of 
Kdli's  Shrine,  is  one  of  those  he  has  made  his  tool,  the  way  he 
made  me.  If  he  is  in  Amber,  I  shall  find  him.  You  can  take  your 
oath  on  that."  He  stood  up,  straight  and  virile,  instinct  with 
purpose  as  a  drawn  sword.  "  I  am  going  now,  Roy.  But  not  one 
word  to  any  soul.  Grandfather  and  Anina  only  need  to  know  I 


276  FAR  TO  SEEK 

am  trying  to  find  who  toppled  those  stones.  I  shall  not  succeed. 
That  is  all:  —  except  for  you  and  me.  Bijli,  Son  of  Lightning, 
will  take  me  full  gallop  to  Amber.  First  thing  in  the  morning, 
I  will  come  —  and  make  my  report." 

"But  look  here  —  Lance  knows  — " 

"  Well,  your  Lance  can  suppose  he  got  away.  We  could  trust 
him,  I  don't  doubt.  But  what  is  known  to  more  than  two  will  in 
time  be  known  to  a  hundred.  For  myself,  I  don't  trouble.  Among 
Rajputs  the  penalty  would  be  slight.  But  this  thing  must  be  kept 
between  you  and  me  —  because  of  Aruna." 

Roy  held  out  his  hand.  Dyan's  fingers  closed  on  it  like  taut 
strips  of  steel.  Unmistakeably  the  real  Dyan  Singh  had  shed 
the  husks  of  scholarship  and  politics  and  come  into  his  own  again. 

"I  wouldn't  care  to  have  those  at  my  throat!"  remarked  Roy, 
pensively  considering  the  streaks  on  his  own  hand. 

"Some  Germans  didn't  care  for  it  —  in  France,"  said  Dyan 
coolly.  "  But  now  —  "  He  scowled  at  his  offending  left  arm.  "  I 
hope  —  very  soon  —  never  mind.  No  more  talking  —  poison 
gas!"  And  with  a  flash  of  white  teeth  —  he  was  gone. 

Roy,  left  staring  into  the  fire,  followed  him  in  imagination, 
speeding  through  the  silent  city  out  into  the  region  of  '  skulls  and 
eye-sockets'  —  a  flying  shadow  in  the  moonhght  with  mmrder  in 
its  heart . . . 

Within  an  hour,  that  flying  shadow  was  outside  the  gateway 
of  Amber,  startling  the  doorkeepers  from  sleep;  murder,  not  only 
in  its  heart,  but  tucked  securely  in  its  belt.  No  'law-courts  talk* 
for  one  of  his  breed;  no  nice  adjustment  of  penalty  to  offence; 
no  concern  as  to  possible  consequences.  The  Rajput,  with  his 
blood  up,  is  daring  to  the  point  of  recklessness;  deaf  to  puerile 
promptings  of  prudence  or  mercy;  a  sword,  seeking  its  victim, 
insatiate  till  the  thrust  has  gone  home. 

And,  in  justice  to  Dyan  Singh,  it  should  be  added  that  there 
was  more  than  Anina  in  his  mind.  There  was  India  — increas- 
ingly at  the  mercy  of  Chandranath  and  his  kind.  The  very  blind- 
ness of  his  earlier  obsession  had  intensified  the  effect  of  his  awak- 
ening. Roy's  devoted  daring,  his  grandfather's  mellow  wisdom, 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  277 

had  worked  in  his  fiery  soiil  more  profoundly  than  they  knew: 
and  his  act  of  revenge  was  also,  m  his  eyes,  an  act  of  expiation.  At 
the  bidding  of  Chandranath,  or  another,  he  would  unhesitatingly 
have  flung  a  bomb  at  the  Conunissioner  of  Delhi  —  the  sane, 
strong  man  whose  words  and  bearing  had  so  impressed  him  on 
the  few  occasions  they  had  met  at  the  Residency.  By  what  law 
of  God  or  man,  then,  should  he  hesitate  to  grind  the  head  of  this 
snake  imder  his  heel? 

One-handed  though  he  was,  he  would  not  strike  from  behind. 
The  son  of  a  jackal  should  know  who  struck  him.  He  should 
taste  fear,  before  he  tasted  death.  And  then  —  the  Lake,  that 
would  never  give  up  its  secret  or  its  dead.  Sri  Chandranath 
would  simply  disappear  from  his  world,  like  a  stone  flung  into  a 
river;  and  India  would  be  a  cleaner  place  without  him.  He  knew 
himself  hampered,  if  it  came  to  a  struggle.  But  —  tchal  the  man 
was  a  coward.  Let  the  gods  but  deliver  his  victim  into  that  one 
purposeful  hand  of  his  —  and  the  end  was  siure. 

Near  the  Palace,  he  deserted  Bijli,  Son  of  Lightning;  tethered 
him  securely  and  spoke  a  few  words  in  his  ear,  while  the  devoted 
creature  nuzzled  against  him,  as  who  should  say,  *  What  need  of 
speech  between  me  and  thee? '  Then  —  following  Roy's  direc- 
tions —  he  made  his  way  cautiously  up  the  hillside,  where  the 
arch  showed  clear  in  the  moon.  If  Chandranath  had  been  in- 
jured or  stupefied,  he  would  probably  not  have  gone  far. 

His  surmise  proved  correct.  His  stealthy  approach  well-timed. 
The  guardian  gods  of  Amber,  it  seemed,  were  on  his  side.   For 
there,  on  the  fallen  slab,  crouched  a  shadow,  bowed  forward;  its 
head  in  its  hands.    "Must  have  been  stunned,"  he  thought. 
Patently  the  gods  were  with  him.  Had  he  been  an  Englishman, ; 
the  man's  hurt  would  probably  have  balked  him  of  his  purpose.  \ 
But  Dyan  Singh,  Rajput,  was  not  hampered  by  the  sportsman's 
code  of  morals.   He  was  frankly  out  to  kill.   His  brain  worked  | 
swiftly,  instinctively:  and  swift  action  followed  ... 

Out  of  the  sheltering  shadow  he  leapt,  as  the  cheetah  leaps  on 
its  prey:  the  long  knife  gripped  securely  in  his  teeth.  Before 
Chandranath  came  to  his  senses,  the  steel-spring  grasp  was  on  his 
throat,  stifling  the  yell  of  terror  at  Roy's  supposed  return  . . . 


278  FAR  TO  SEEK 

The  tussle  was  short  and  silent.  Within  three  minutes,  Dyan 
had  his  man  down;  arms  and  body  pinioned  between  his  powerful 
knees,  that  his  one  available  hand  might  be  free  to  strike.  Then, 
in  a  low,  fierce  rush,  he  spoke:  "Yes  —  it  is  I  —  Dyan  Singh. 
You  told  me  often  —  strike,  for  the  Mother.  *  Who  kills  the  body 
kills  naught.'  I  strike  for  the  Mother  now." 

Once  —  twice  —  the  knife  struck  deep;  and  the  writhing  thing 
between  his  knees  was  still. 

He  did  not  altogether  relish  the  weird  journey  down  to  the 
§hore  of  the  Lake;  or  the  too  close  proximity  of  the  limp  bur- 
den slimg  over  his  shoulder.  But  his  imagination  did  not  run 
riot,  like  Roy's:  and  no  qualms  of  conscience  perturbed  his  soul. 
He  had  avenged,  tenfold,  Aruna's  injury.  He  had  expiated,  in 
drastic  fashion,  his  own  aberration  from  sanity.  It  was  enough. 

The  soft  'plop'  and  splash  of  the  falling  body,  well  weighted 
with  stones,  was  music  to  his  ear.  Beyond  that  musical  murmur 
the  Lake  would  utter  no  soimd  . . . 


Chapter  XVI 

So  let  him  journey  through  his  earthly  day; 
'Mid  hustling  spirits  go  his  self-found  way; 
Find  torture,  bliss,  in  every  forward  stride  — 
He,  every  moment,  stiU  unsatisfied. 

Faust 

Next  morning,  very  early,  he  was  closeted  with  Roy,  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  his  bed;  cautiously,  circumstantially,  telling  him  all. 
Roy,  as  he  listened,  was  half  repelled,  half  impressed  by  the  sheer 
impetus  of  the  thing;  and  again  he  felt  —  as  once  or  twice  in 
Delhi  —  what  centuries  apart  they  were,  though  related,  and 
ifalmost  of  an  age. 

"This  will  be  only  between  you  and  me,  Roy  —  for  always," 
Dyan  concluded  gravely.  "Not  because  I  have  any  shame  for 
killing  that  snake;  but  —  as  I  said  —  because  of  Aruna  — " 

"Trust  me,"  said  Roy.  "Amber  Lake  and  I  don't  blab. 
There'll  be  a  nine  days'  mystery  over  his  disappearance.  Then 
his  lot  will  set  up  some  other  tin  god  —  and  promptly  forget  all 
about  him." 

"Let  us  follow  their  example,  in  that  at  least!"  Grim  himiour 
flickered  in  Dydn's  eyes,  as  he  extracted  a  cigarette  from  the 
proffered  case.  "You  gave  me  my  chance.  I  have  taken  it  — 
like  a  Rajput.  Now  we  have  other  things  to  do." 

Roy  smiled.  "That's  about  the  size  of  it  —  from  your  sane, 
barbaric  standpoint!  I'm  fairly  besieged  with  other  things  to  do. 
As  soon  as  this  blooming  ankle  allows  me  to  hobble,  I'm  keen  to 
get  at  some  of  the  thoughtful  elements  in  Calcutta  and  Bombay; 
educated  Indian  men  and  women  who  honestly  believe  that 
India  is  moving  towards  a  national  unity  that  will  transcend  all 
antagonism  of  race  and  creed.  I  can't  see  it  myself;  but  I've  an 
open  mind.  Then,  I  think,  Udaipur  — '  last,  loneliest,  loveliest, 
apart'  —  to  knock  my  novel  into  shape  before  I  go  North.  And 
you  —  ?  "  He  pensively  took  stock  of  his  volcanic  cousin.  "  Siu:e 
you're  safe  not  to  erupt  again?" 


28o  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Safe  as  houses  —  thanks  to  you.  That  doesn't  mean  I  can 
be  orthodox  Hindu  and  work  for  the  orthodox  Jaipur  Raj.  I 
would  like  to  join  'Servants  of  India'  Society;  and  work  for  the 
Mother  among  those  who  accept  British  connection  as  India's 
God-given  destiny.  In  no  other  way  will  I  work  again  —  to 
'make  her  a  widow.'  Also,  I  thought  perhaps"  —  he  hesitated, 
averting  his  eyes  —  "to  take  vow  of  celibacy  — " 

"Dydn!"  Roy  could  not  repress  his  astonishment.  He  had 
almost  forgotten  that  side  of  things.  Right  or  wrong  —  a  tribute 
to  Tara  indeed!  It  jerked  him  uncomfortably;  almost  annoyed 
him. 

"Unfair  to  Grandfather,"  he  said  with  decision.  "For  every 
reason,  you  ought  to  marry  —  an  enlightened  wife.  Think  —  of 
Anina." 

"I  do  think  of  her.  It  is  she  who  ought  to  marry." 

The  emphasis  was  not  lost  on  Roy :  —  and  it  hurt.  Last  night's 
poignant  scene  was  intimately  with  him  still. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  won't  persuade  her  to,"  he  said  in  a  con- 
tained voice. 

"  I  am  quite  aware  of  that.  And  the  reason  —  even  a  blind  man 
could  not  fail  to  see." 

They  looked  straight  at  one  another  for  a  long  moment.  Roy 
did  not  swerve  from  the  implied  accusation. 

"Well,  it's  no  fault  of  mine,  Dydn,"  he  said,  recalling  Aruna's 
confession  that  tacitly  freed  him  from  blame.  ''She  understands 
—  there's  a  bigger  thing  between  us  than  our  mere  selves.  What- 
ever I'm  free  to  do  for  her,  I'll  gladly  do  —  always.  .It  was 
chiefly  to  ease  her  poor  heart  that  I  risked  the  Delhi  adventure. 
I  felt  I  had  lost  the  link  with  you." 

"Not  surprising."  Dyan  smoked  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence. 
He  was  clearly  moved  by  the  fine  frankness  of  Roy's  attitude. 
"All  the  same,"  he  said  at  last,  "it  was  not  quite  broken.  You 
have  given  me  new  life;  and  because  you  did  it  —  for  her,  I  swear 
to  you,  as  long  as  she  needs  me,  I  will  not  fail  her."  He  held  out 
his  hand.  Roy's  closed  on  it  hard.  "Later  in  the  morning  I  will 
come  back  and  see  her,"  Dyan  added,  in  a  changed  voice  — 
and  went  out. 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  e8i 

Later  in  the  morning  Roy  himself  was  allowed  to  see  her.  With 
the  help  of  his  stick  he  limped  to  her  verandah  balcony,  where  she 
lay  in  a  long  chair,  with  cushions  and  rugs,  the  poor  arm  in  a 
sling.  Thea  was  with  her.  She  had  heard  as  much  of  last  night's 
doings  as  anyone  would  ever  know.  So  she  felt  justified  in  let- 
ting 'the  poor  dears'  have  half  an  hour  together. 

Her  withdrawal  was  tactfully  achieved;  but  there  followed  an 
awkward  silence.  For  the  space  of  several  minutes  it  seemed  that 
neither  of  the '  poor  dears '  knew  quite  what  to  make  of  their  priv- 
ilege, though  they  were  appreciating  it  from  their  hearts. 

Roy  found  himself  too  persistently  aware  of  the  arm  that  had 
been  broken  to  save  him;  of  the  new  bond  between  them,  signed 
and  sealed  by  that  one  imforgettable  kiss. 

As  for  Aruna  —  while  pain  anchored  her  body  to  earth,  her 
unstable  heart  swayed  disconcertingly  from  heights  of  rarefied 
content  to  depths  of  shyness.  Things  she  had  said  and  done,  on 
that  far-away  hillside,  seemed  unbelievable,  remembered  in  her 
familiar  balcony  with  a  daylight  mind:  and  fear  lest  he  might  be 
'thinking  it  that  way  too'  increased  shyness  tenfold.  Yet  it  was 
she  who  spoke  first,  after  all. 

"Oh,  it  makes  me  angry ...  to  see  you  —  like  that,"  she  said, 
indicating  his  ankle  with  a  faint  movement  of  her  hand. 

Roy  quietly  took  possession  of  the  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his 
lips. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  /  feel,  seeing  you  like  that?  "  Words  and 
act  dispelled  her  foolish  fears.  "Did  you  sleep?  Does  it  hurt 
much?" 

"Only  if  I  forget  and  try  to  move.  But  what  matter?  Every 
time  it  hurts,  I  feel  proud  because  that  feeble  arm  was  able  to 
push  you  out  of  the  way." 

"You've  every  right  to  feel  proud.  You  nearly  knocked  me 
overl" 

A  mischievous  smile  crept  into  her  eyes.  "  I  am  afraid  —  I  was 
very  rude!" 

"  That's  one  way  of  putting  it ! "  His  grave  tenderness  warmed 
her  like  sunshine.  He  leaned  nearer;  his  hand  grasped  the  arm  of 
her  long  chair.  "You  were  a  very  wonderful  Ardna  last  night. 


282  FAR  TO  SEEK 

And  —  you  are  going  to  be  more  wonderful  still.  Working  with 
Dyan,  you  are  going  to  help  make  my  dream  come  true  —  of 
India  finding  herself  again  by  her  own  genius,  along  her  own 
lines  —  " 

Had  he  struck  the  right  note.  Her  face  lit  up  as  he  had  hoped 
to  see  it.  "Oh,  Roy  —  can  I  really  —?  Will  Dyan  help?  Will 
he  let  me — " 

"  Of  course  he  will.  And  I'll  be  helping  too  —  in  my  own  fash- 
ion. We'll  never  lose  touch,  Aruna;  though  India's  your  destiny 
and  England's  mine.  Never  say  again  you  have  no  true  country. 
Like  me,  you  have  two  countries  —  one  very  dear;  one  supreme. 
I'm  afraid  there  are  terrible  days  coming  out  here.  And  in  those 
days  every  one  of  you  who  honestly  loves  England  —  every  one 
of  us  who  honestly  loves  India  —  will  count  in  the  scale  ..." 

He  paused;  and  she  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Oh  —  how  you  see 
things!  It  is  you  who  are  wonderful,  Roy.  I  can  think  and  feel 
the  big  things  in  my  heart.  But  for  doing  them  —  I  am,  after  all, 
only  a  woman ..." 

"An  Indian  woman,"  he  emphasised,  his  eyes  on  hers.  "I 
know  —  and  you  know  —  what  that  means.  You  have  not  yet 
bartered  away  your  magical  influence  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  Be- 
cause of  one  Indian  woman  —  supreme  for  me;  and  now . . . 
because  of  another,  they  all  have  a  special  claim  on  my  heart. 
If  India  has  not  gone  too  far  down  the  wrong  road,  it  is  by  the 
true  Swadeshi  spirit  of  her  women  she  may  yet  be  saved.  They, 
at  any  rate,  don't  reckon  progress  by  counting  factory  chimneys 
or  seats  on  councils.  And  every  seed  —  good  or  bad  —  is  sown 
first  in  the  home.  Get  at  the  women,  Aruna  —  the  home  ones  — 
and  tell  them  that.  It's  not  only  my  dream;  it  was  —  my  mo- 
ther's. You  don't  know  how  she  loved  and  believed  in  you  all. 
I  think  she  never  quite  understood  the  other  kind.  The  longer 
she  lived  among  them,  the  more  she  craved  for  all  of  you  to  re- 
main true  women  —  in  the  full  sense,  not  the  narrow  one  —  " 

He  had  never  yet  spoken  so  frankly  and  freely  of  that  dear  lost 
mother;  Anina  knew  it  for  the  highest  compliment  he  could  pay 
her.  Truly  his  generous  heart  was  giving  her  all  that  his  jealous 
household  gods  would  permit . . . 


PISGAH  HEIGHTS  283 

Thea  —  stepping  softly  through  the  inner  room  —  caught  a 
sentence  or  two;  caught  a  glimpse  of  Roy's  finely  cut  profile;  of 
Aruna's  eyes  intent  on  his  face;  and  she  smiled  very  tenderly  to 
herself.  It  was  so  exactly  like  Roy;  and  such  constancy  of  devo- 
lion  went  straight  to  her  mother-heart.  So  too  —  with  a  sharper 
pang  —  did  the  love  hunger  in  Aruna's  eyes.  The  puzzle  of  these 
increasing  race  complications . . .  !  The  tragedy  and  the  pity  of 
it ...  I 

Lance  travelled  North  that  night  with  a  mind  at  ease.  Roy 
had  assured  him  that  the  moment  his  ankle  permitted  he  would 
leave  Jaipur  and  'give  the  bee  in  his  bonnet  an  auing'  elsewhere. 
That  assiu-ance  proved  easier  to  give  than  to  act  upon,  when  the 
moment  came.  The  Jaipm:  Residency  had  come  to  seem  almost 
like  home.  And  the  magnet  of  home  drew  all  that  was  Eastern 
in  Roy.  It  was  the  British  blood  in  his  veins  that  drove  him  afield. 
Though  India  was  his  objective,  England  was  the  impelling 
force.  His  true  home  seemed  hundreds  of  miles  away,  in  more 
senses  than  one.  His  tmion  with  Rajputana  —  set  with  the  seal 
of  that  sacred  and  beautiful  experience  at  Chitor  —  seemed,  in 
his  present  mood,  the  more  vital  of  the  two. 

And  there  was  Lance  up  in  the  Punjab  —  a  magnet  as  strong 
as  any,  when  the  masculine  element  prevailed.  Yet  again,  some 
inner,  irresistible  impulse  obliged  him  to  break  away  from  them 
all.  It  was  one  of  those  inevitable  moments  when  the  dual  forces 
within  pulled  two  ways;  when  he  felt  envious  exceedingly  of 
Lance  Desmond's  sane  and  single-minded  attitude  towards  men 
and  things.  One  couldn't  picture  Lance  a  prey  to  the  ignomini- 
ous sensation  that  half  of  him  wanted  to  go  one  way  and  half  of 
him  another  way.  At  this  juncture  half  of  himself  felt  a  con- 
founded fool  for  not  going  back  to  the  Punjab  and  enjoying  a 
friendly,  sociable  cold  weather  among  his  father's  people.  The 
other  half  felt  impelled  to  probe  deeper  into  the  complexities  of 
changing  India,  to  confirm  and  impart  his  belief  that  the  desti- 
nies of  England  and  India  were  one  and  indivisible.  After  all, 
India  stood  where  she  did  to-day  by  virtue  of  what  England 
had  done  for  her.  He  refused  to  believe  that  even  the  insidious 


284  FAR  TO  SEEK 

disintegrating  process  of  democracy  could  dissolve  —  in  a  brief 
fever  of  unrest  —  links  forged  and  welded  in  the  course  of  a 
hundred  years. 

In  that  case,  argued  his  practical  half,  why  this  absurd  inner 
sense  of  responsibility  for  great  issues  over  which  he  could  have 
no  shadow  of  control?  What  was  the  earthly  use  of  it  —  this 
large  window  in  his  soul,  opening  on  to  world's  complexities  and 
conflicts;  not  allowing  him  to  say  comfortably,  'They  are  not'? 
His  opal-tinted  dreams  of  interpreting  East  to  West  had  suffered 
a  change  of  complexion  since  Oxford  days.  His  large,  vague  aspi- 
rations of  service  had  narrowed  down,  inevitably,  to  a  few  definite 
personal  issues.  Action  involves  limitation  —  as  the  picture  in- 
volves the  frame.  Dreams  must  descend  to  earth  —  or  remain 
unfruitful.  It  might  be  a  little,  or  a  great  matter,  that  he  had 
managed  to  set  two  himian  fragments  of  changing  India  on  the 
right  path  —  so  far  as  he  could  discern  it.  The  fruits  of  that 
modest  beginning  only  the  years  could  reveal . . . 

Then  there  was  this  precious  novel  simmering  at  the  back  of 
things;  his  increasing  desire  to  get  away  alone  with  the  ghostly 
company  that  haunted  his  brain.  As  the  mother-to-be  feels  the 
new  life  mysteriously  moving  within  her,  so  he  began  to  feel 
within  him  the  first  stirrings  of  his  own  creative  power.  Already 
his  poems  and  essays  had  raised  expectations  and  secured  atten- 
tion for  other  things  he  wanted  to  say.  And  there  seemed  no  end 
to  them.  He  had  hardly  yet  begun  his  mental  adventures.  Press- 
ing forward,  through  sense,  to  the  limitless  regions  of  mind  and 
spirit,  new  vistas  would  open,  new  paths  lure  him  on  . . . 

That  first  bewildering,  intoxicating  sense  of  power  is  good  — 
while  it  lasts;  none  the  less,  because,  in  the  nature  of  things,  it  is 
foredoomed  to  disillusion,  greater  or  less,  according  to  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  god  within. 

Whatever  the  outcome  for  Roy,  that  passing  exaltation  eased 
appreciably  the  pang  of  parting  from  them  all.  And  it  was  re- 
sponsible for  a  happy  inspiration.  Rummaging  among  his  papers, 
on  the  eve  of  departure,  he  came  upon  the  sketch  of  India  that 
he  had  written  in  Delhi  and  refrained  from  sending  to  Aruna. 
Intrinsically  it  was  hers;  inspired  by  her.  Also  —  intrinsically 


J  PISGAH  HEIGHTS  C85 

it  was  good:  and  straightway  he  decided  she  should  have  it  for 
a  parting  gift. 

^  Beautifully  copied  out,  and  tied  up  with  carnation-coloured 

j  ribbons,  he  reserved  it  for  their  last  few  moments  together.  She 

was  still  such  a  child  in  some  ways.  The  small  surprise  of  his  gift 

I  might  ease  the  pang  of  parting.  It  was  a  woman's  thought.  But 

the  woman-strain  of  tenderness  was  strong  in  Roy  as  in  all  true 

artists. 

She  was  standing  near  the  fire  in  her  own  sitting-room,  wear- 
ing the  pink  dress  and  sari,  her  arm  still  in  a  sling.  Last  words, 
those  desperate  inanities  —  buffers  between  the  heart  and  its  own 
emotion  —  are  difficult  things  to  bring  off  in  any  case;  peculiarly 
difficult  for  these  two,  with  that  unreal,  yet  intensely  actual,  bond 
between  them;  and  Roy  felt  more  than  grateful  to  the  inspiration 
that  gave  him  something  definite  to  say. 

Instantly  her  eyes  were  on  it  —  wondering . . .  guessing . . . 

"It's  a  little  thing  I  wrote  in  Delhi,"  he  said  simply.  "I 
couldn't  send  it  to  Jeffers.  It  seemed  —  to  belong  to  you.  So  I 
thought  — "  He  proffered  it,  feeling  absurdly  shy  of  it  —  and  of 
her. 

"Oh  —  but  it  is  too  much!"  Holding  it  with  her  sling  hand, 
she  opened  it  with  the  other  and  devoured  it  eagerly  under  his 
watching  eyes.  By  the  changes  that  flitted  across  her  face,  by  the 
tremor  of  her  lips  and  her  hands,  as  she  pressed  it  to  her  heart,  he 
knew  he  could  have  given  her  no  dearer  treasure  than  that  frag- 
ment of  himself.  And  because  he  knew  it,  he  felt  tongue-tied; 
tempted  beyond  measure  to  kiss  her  once  again. 

If  she  divined  his  thought,  she  kept  her  lashes  lowered  and  gave 
no  sign. 

He  hoped  she  knew  . . . 

But  before  either  could  break  the  spell  of  silence  that  held 
them,  Thea  returned;  and  their  moment  —  their  id>41  —  was 
over. ... 
/ 

END  OF  PHASE  m 


PHASE  IV 
DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL 


PHASE  IV 
DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL 
Chapter  I 

Jt*s  no  use  trying  to  keep  out  of  things.  The  moment  they  want  to 
Put  you  in  —  you're  in.  The  moment  you're  born,  you're  done  for. 

Hugh  Walpoub 

The  middle  of  March  found  Roy  back  in  the  Punjab,  sharing  a 
ramshackle  bungalow  with  Lance  and  two  of  his  brother  officers; 
good  fellows,  both,  in  their  diametrically  opposite  fashions;  but 
superfluous  —  from  Roy's  point  of  view.  When  he  wanted  a 
quiet  'confab'  with  Lance,  one  or  both  were  sure  to  come  stroll- 
ing in  and  hang  around,  jerking  out  aimless  remarks.  When  he 
wanted  a  still  quieter  'confab'  with  his  novel,  their  voices  and 
footsteps  echoed  too  clearly  in  the  verandahs  and  the  scantily 
furnished  rooms.  But,  did  he  venture  to  grumble  at  these  minor 
drawbacks  Lance  would  declare  he  was  demoralised  by  floating 
loose  in  an  Earthly  Paradise  and  becoming  simply  an  appendage 
to  a  pencil. 

There  was  a  measure  of  truth  in  the  last.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
after  two  months  of  uninterrupted  work  at  Udaipur,  Roy  had 
imwarily  hinted  at  a  risk  of  becoming  embedded  in  his  too  con- 
genial surroundings:  —  and  that  careless  admission  had  sealed 
his  fate. 

Lance  Desmond,  with  his  pointed  phrase,  had  virtually  dug 
him  out  of  his  chosen  retreat;  had  written  temptingly  of  the 
'last  of  the  polo,'  of  prime  pig-sticking  at  Kapurthala,  of  the 
big  Gymkhana  that  was  to  wind  up  the  season,  —  a  rare  chance 
for  Roy  to  exhibit  his  horsemanship.  And  again,  in  more  serious 
mood,  he  had  written  of  increasing  anxiety  over  his  Sikhs,  with 
that  'infernal  agitation  business'  on  the  increase,  and  an  un- 
bridled native  press  shouting  sedition  from  the  house-tops.  A 
nice  state  of  chaos  India  was  coming  to!  He  hoped  to  goodness 


290  FAR  TO  SEEK 

they  wouldn't  be  swindled  out  of  their  leave;  but  Roy  had  better 
turn  up  soon,  so  as  to  be  on  the  spot  in  case  of  a  dust-up,  not 
packed  away  in  cotton  wool  down  there. 

One  or  two  letters  in  this  vein  had  effectually  rent  the  veil  of 
illusion  that  shielded  Roy  from  aggressive  actualities.  In  Udai- 
pur  there  had  been  no  hysterical  press;  no  sedition  flaunting  on 
the  house-tops.  One  hadn't  arrived  at  the  twentieth  century, 
even.  Except  for  a  flourishing  hospital,  a  few  hideous  modern 
interiors,  and  a  Resident  —  who  was  very  good  friends  with  Vinx 
—  one  just  stepped  straight  back  into  the  leisurely,  colourful, 
frankly  brutal  life  of  the  Middle  Ages.  And  Roy  had  fallen  a 
willing  victim  to  the  spell  of  Udaipur  —  her  white  palaces,  white 
temples,  and  white  landing-stages,  flanked  with  marble  elephants, 
embosomed  in  wooded  hills,  and  reflected  in  the  blue,  untroubled 
depths  of  the  Pichola  Lake.  Immersed  in  his  novel,  he  had  not 
known  a  dull  or  lonely  hour  in  that  enchanted  backwater  of 
Rajasthan. 

His  large,  vague  plans  for  getting  in  touch  with  the  thoughtful 
elements  of  Calcutta  and  Bombay  had  yielded  to  the  stronger 
magnetism  of  beauty  and  art.  Like  his  father,  he  hated  politics; 
and  Westernised  India  is  nothing  if  not  political.  It  was  a  true 
instinct  that  warned  him  to  keep  clear  of  that  muddy  stream, 
and  render  his  mite  of  service  to  India  in  the  exercise  of  his 
individual  gift.  That  would  be  in  accord  with  one  of  his  mother's 
wise  and  tender  sayings:  his  memory  was  jewelled  with  them. 
"Look  always  first  at  your  own  gifts.  They  are  sign-posts, 
pointing  the  road  to  your  true  line  of  service.'*  Could  he  but 
immortalise  the  measure  of  her  spirit  that  was  in  him,  that  were 
true  service,  indeed,  to  India  —  and  more  than  India.  There 
are  men  created  for  action.  There  are  men  created  to  inspire 
action.  And  the  world  has  equal  need  of  both. 

He  had  things  to  say  on  paper  that  would  take  him  all  his 
time;  and  Udaipur  had  metaphorically  opened  her  arms  to  him. 
The  Resident  and  his  wife  had  been  more  than  kind.  He  had 
his  books;  his  cool,  lofty  rooms  in  the  Guest  House;  his  own 
private  boat  on  the  Lake;  and  freedom  to  go  his  own  unfettered 
way  at  all  hours  of  the  day  or  night.  There  the  simmering  novel 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  ctgi 

had  begun  to  move  with  a  life  of  its  own;  and  while  that  state 
of  being  endured,  nothing  else  mattered  much  in  earth  or  heaven. 

For  seven  weeks  he  had  worked  at  it  without  interruption; 
and  for  seven  weeks  he  had  been  happy,  companioned  by  the 
vivid  creatures  of  his  brain,  and,  better  still,  by  a  quickened 
imdersense  of  his  mother's  vital  share  in  the  'blossom  and  fruit 
of  his  life.*  The  danger  of  becoming  embedded  had  been  no 
myth:  and  at  the  back  of  his  brain  there  had  lurked  a  supersti- 
tious reluctance  to  break  the  spell. 

But  Lance  was  Lance:  no  one  like  him.  Moreover  he  had 
known  well  enough  that  anticipation  of  breakers  ahead  was  no 
fanciful  nightmare,  but  a  sane  corrective  to  the  ostrich  policy 
of  those  who  had  sown  the  evil  seed  and  were  trying  to  say  of 
the  fruit,  'It  is  not.*  Letters  from  Dyan,  and  spasmodic  devour- 
ing of  newspapers,  kept  him  aUve  to  the  sinister  activities  of  the 
larger  world  outside.  News  from  Bombay  grew  steadily  more 
disquieting:  —  strikes  and  riots,  fomented  by  agitators,  who  lied 
shamelessly  about  the  nature  of  the  new  Bills;  hostile  crowds 
and  insults  to  English  women.  Dyin  more  than  hinted  that  if 
the  threatened  outbreak  were  not  ruthlessly  crushed  at  the  start, 
it  might  prove  a  far-reaching  affair;  and  Roy  had  not  the  sUght» 
est  desire  to  find  himself  'packed  away  in  cotton  wool,'  miles 
from  the  scene  or  action.  Clearly  Lance  wanted  him.  He  might 
be  useful  on  the  spot.  And  that  settled  the  matter. 

Impossible  to  leave  so  much  loveliness,  such  large  draughts 
of  peace  and  leisure,  without  a  pang;  but  —  the  wrench  over  — 
he  was  well  content  to  find  himself  established  in  this  ram- 
shackle bachelor  bungalow,  back  again  with  Lance  and  his  music 
— very  much  in  evidence  just  now  —  and  the  two  superfluous 
good  fellows,  whom  he  liked  well  enough  in  homoeopathic  doses. 
Especially  he  liked  Jack  Meredith,  cousin  of  the  Desmonds  — 
a  large  and  simple  soul,  gravely  absorbed  in  pursuing  balls  and 
tent-pegs  and  'pig';  impervious  to  feminine  lures;  equally 
impervious  to  the  caustic  wit  of  his  diametrical  opposite,  Captain 
James  Barnard,  who  eased  his  private  envy  by  christening  him 
'Don  Juan.'  For  Meredith  fatally  attracted  women;  and  Barn- 
ard —  cultured,  cynical,  Cambridge  —  was  as  fatally  susceptible 


S93  FAR  TO  SEEK 

to  them  as  a  trout  to  a  May-fly;  but,  for  some  unfathomable 
reason,  they  would  not;  and  in  Anglo-India  a  man  could  not 
hide  his  failures  under  a  bushel.  Lance  classified  him  compre- 
hensively as  'one  of  the  War  lot';  Uked  him,  and  was  sorry  for 
him,  although  —  perhaps  because  —  he  was  'no  soldier.' 

Roy  also  liked  him,  when  the  mood  was  on.  Still,  he  would 
have  preferred,  beyond  measure,  the  Kohat  arrangement,  with 
the  Colonel  for  an  imobtrusive  third. 

But  the  Colonel,  these  days,  had  a  bungalow  to  himself;  a 
bimgalow  in  process  of  being  furnished  by  no  means  on  bachelor 
lines.  For  the  unbelievable  had  come  to  pass  —  !  And  the  whole 
affair  had  been  carried  through  in  his  own  inimitable  fashion, 
without  so  much  as  a  telltale  ripple  on  the  surface  of  things. 
Quite  unobtrusively,  at  Kohat,  he  had  made  friends  with  the 
General's  daughter  —  a  dark-haired  slip  of  a  girl,  with  the  blood 
of  distinguished  Frontier  soldiers  in  her  veins.  Quite  unob- 
trusively —  during  Christmas  week  —  he  had  laid  his  heart  and 
the  Regiment  at  her  feet.  Quite]  imobtrusively,  he  proposed  to 
marry  her  in  April,  and  carry  her  off  to  Kashmir. 

"Thai's  the  way  it  goes  with  some  people,"  said  Lance,  the 
first  time  he  spoke  of  it;  and  Roy  detected  a  wistful  note  in  his 
voice. 

"That's  the  way  it'll  go  with  you,  old  man,"  he  had  retorted. 
"I'm  the  one  that  will  have  to  look  out  for  squalls!" 

Lance  had  merely  smiled  and  said  nothing  —  the  reception 
he  usually  accorded  to  personal  remarks.  And,  at  the  moment, 
Roy  thought  no  more  of  the  matter. 

Their  first  good  week  of  polo  and  riding  and  fooling  round 
together  had  quickened  his  old  allegiance  to  Lance,  his  newer 
allegiance  to  the  brotherhood  of  action.  He  possessed  no  more 
enviable  talent  than  his  many-sided  zest  for  hfe. 

Lance  himself  seemed  in  a  more  social  mood  than  usual.  So 
of  course  Roy  must  submit  to  being  bowled  round  in  the  new 
dog-cart,  and  introduced  to  a  select  circle  of  friends,  in  canton- 
ments and  Lahore,  including  the  Deputy  Commissioner's  wife 
and  good-looking  eldest  daughter;  the  best  dancer  in  the  station 
and  rather  an  extra  special  friend,  he  gathered  from  Lance's 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  293 

best  offhand  manner.  She  was  quite  distinctively  good-looking; 
beautiful,  almost,  with  her  twofold  grace  of  carriage  and  feature; 
and  her  low- toned  harmony  of  colouring:  —  ivory-white  skin, 
ash-blond  hair,  and  hazel  eyes,  clear  as  a  Highland  river;  the 
pupils  abnormally  large,  the  short,  thick  lashes  very  black,  like 
a  smudge  round  her  lids.  She  was  tall,  in  fine,  and  carried  her 
beauty  deliberately,  like  a  brimming  chaUce;  very  completely 
mistress  of  herself;  and  very  completely  detached  from  her._ 
florid,  effusive,  worldly  wise  mother.  Unquestionably,  a  young 
woman  to  be  reckoned  with. 

But  Roy  did  not  feel  disposed,  just  then,  to  reckon  seriously] 
with  any  young  woman,  however  alluring.  The  memory  of 
Aruna  —  the  exquisite  remoteness  from  every-day  life  of  their 
whole  relation  —  did  not  easily  fade.  And  the  creatures  of  his 
brain  were  still  clamant,  in  spite  of  rudely  broken  threads  and 
drastic  change  of  surroundings.  Lance  had  presented  him  with 
a  spacious  writing-table;  and  most  days  he  would  stick  to  it  for 
hours,  sooner  than  drive  out  in  pursuit  of  tennis  or  afternoon 
dancing  in  Lahore.  .  ^  '  ' 

He  was  sitting  at  it  now;  flinging  down  a  dramatic  episode, 
roughly,  rapidly,  as  it  came.  The  polished  surface  was  strewn 
with  an  untidy  array  of  papers;  the  only  ornaments  a  bit  of  old 
brass-work  and  two  ivory  elephants,  a  photograph  of  his  father, 
and  a  large  one  of  his  mother  taken  from  the  portrait  at  Jaipur, 
The  table  was  set  almost  at  right  angles  to  his  open  door,  and 
the  chick  rolled  up.  He  had  a  weakness  for  being  able  to  'see 
out,'  if  it  was  only  the  corner  of  a  barren  'compound'  and  a  few 
dusty  oleanders.  He  had  forgotten  the  others;  forgotten  the 
time.  All  he  asked,  while  the  spate  lasted,  was  to  be  left  alone.  .  . 

He  almost  jiunped  when  the  latch  clicked  behmd  him  and 
Lance  strolled  in,  faultlessly  attired;  in  the  latest  suit  from 
Home,  a  golden  brown  tie,  and  a  silk  handkerchief,  the  same 
shade,  emerging  from  his  breast  pocket.  By  nature,  Lance  was 
no  dandy;  but  Roy  had  not  failed  to  note  that  he  was  apt  to  be 
scrupulously  well  turned  out  on  certain  occasions.  And,  at  sight 
of  him,  he  promptly  'remembered  he  had  forgotten'  —  the  very 
particular  nature  of  tp-day's  occasion:  the  marriage  of  Miss 


294  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Gladys  Elton  —  step-sister  of  Rose  Arden  —  to  a  rising  civilian 
some  eighteen  years  older  than  his  bride.  It  was  an  open  secret, 
in  the  station,  that  the  wedding  was  Mrs.  Elton's  private  and 
personal  triumph;  that  she,  not  her  unassuming  daughter,  was 
the  acknowledged  heroine  of  the  day. 

"Not  ready  yet,  you  unmitigated  slacker?"  Lance  arraigned 
him,  with  an  impatient  frown.  "Buck  up.  Time  we  were 
moving." 

"  Awfully  sorry.  I  clean  forgot."  Roy's  tone  was  not  conspicu- 
ously penitent. 

"Tell  us  another!  The  whole  Mess  was  talking  of  it  at  tiffin." 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  forgotten  all  about  tiffin." 

It  was  so  patently  the  truth  that  Lance  looked  mollified.  "  You 
and  your  confounded  novel!  Now  there  —  double.  I  don't 
want  to  be  glaringly  late." 

Roy  looked  pathetic.  "But  I'm  simply  up  to  the  eyes.  The 
truth  is  I  can't  be  bothered.  I'll  turn  up  for  the  dancing  at  the 
Hall." 

"And  I'm  to  make  your  giddy  excuses?" 

"If  any  one  happens  to  notice  my  absence,  you  can  say  some- 
thing pretty  —  " 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Barnard  at  the 
verandah' door.  "Dog-cart's  ready  and  waiting,  Major.  What'^ 
the  hitch?" 

"Sinclair's  discovered  he's  too  busy  to  come!" 

"What  —  the  favoured  one?  The  fair  Rose  won't  relish  that 
touching  mark  of  attention.  On  whom  she  smiles,  from  him  she 
expects  gold  frankincense,  and  myrrh  —  " 

"Drop  it,  Barnard,"  Desmond  cut  in  imperatively;  and  Roy 
remarked  almost  in  the  same  breath,  "Thanks  for  the  tip.  I'll 
write  to  Bombay  for  the  best  brand  of  all  three  against  another 
occasion." 

"But  this  is  the  occasion!  Copy  —  my  dear  chap,  copy! 
Anglo-India,  in  excelsis,  and  *0h,  'Ell'  in  all  her  glory!" 

It  may  be  mentioned  that  Mrs.  Elton's  name  was  Olive; 
that  she  saw  soldiers  as  trees  walking,  and  subalterns  retaliated 
—strictly  behind  her  back. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  295 

But  Roy  remained  unmoved.  "If  you  two  are  in  such  a  fluster 
over  your  precious  wedding,  I  vote  you  to  ^et  out  —  and  let  me 
get  on." 

Barnard  asked  nothing  better.  Miss  Arden  was  his  May-fly 
of  the  moment.  "Come  along,  Major,"  he  cried  and  vanished 
forthwith. 

As  Lance  moved  away,  Roy  remarked  casually:  "Be  a  good 
chap  and  ask  Miss  Arden,  with  my  best  salaams,  to  save  me  a 
dance  or  two,  in  case  I'm  late  turning  up! " 

Lance  gave  him  a  straight  look.  "Not  I.  My  pockets  will  be 
bulging  with  your  apologies.  You  can  get  someone  else  to  do  your 
commissions  in  the  other  line." 

Sheer  astonishment  silenced  Roy;  and  Desmond,  from  the 
threshold,  added  more  seriously,  "Don't  let  the  women  here 
give  you  a  swelled  head,  Roy.  They'll  do  their  damnedest  be- 
tween them." 

When  he  had  gone,  Roy  sat  staring  idly  at  the  patch  of  sun- 
Ught  outside  his  door.  What  the  devil  did  Lance  mean  by  it? 
Moods  were  not  in  his  line.  To  make  £  half -joking  request,  and 
find  Lance  taking  it  seriously  wasn't  in  the  natural  order  of  things. 
And  the  way  he  jumped  on  Barnard,  too.  Could  there  possibly 
have  been  a  rebuff  in  that  quarter?  He  couldn't  picture  any  girl 
in  her  senses  refusing  Lance.  Besides,  they  seemed  on  quite 
friendly  terms.  Nothing  beyond  that  —  so  far  as  Roy  could  see. 
He  would  very  much  like  to  feel  sure.  But,  for  all  their  intimacy, 
he  knew  precisely  how  far  one  could  go  with  Lance:  and  one 
couldn't  go  as  far  as  that. 

As  for  the  remark  about  a  swelled  head,  it  must  have  been 
sheer  rotting.  He  wasn't  troubling  about  women  or  girls  —  ex- 
cept for  tennis  and  dancing;  and  Miss  Arden  was  a  superlative 
performer;  in  fact,  rather  superlative  all  round.  As  a  new  expe- 
rience, she  seemed  distinctly  worth  cultivating,  so  long  as  that 
process  did  not  seriously  hamper  the  novel;  that  was  imasham- 
edly  his  first  consideration,  at  the  moment  —  always  excepting 
Lance.  He  loved  every  phase  of  the  work,  from  the  initial  thrill 
of  inception  to  the  nice  balance  of  a  phrase  and  the  very  look  of 
his  favourite  words.  His  childish  love  of  them  for  their  own  sake 


296  FAR  TO  SEEK 

stUI  prevailed.  For  him,  they  were  still  live  things,  possessing  a 

character  and  charm  all  their  own  .  .  . 

And  now,  the  house  being  blessedly  empty,  his  pencil  sped  off 
again  on  its  wild  career.  The  men  and  women  he  had  loved  into 
life  were  thronging  his  brain.  Everything  else  was  forgotten  — 
Lance  and  Miss  Arden  and  the  wedding  and  the  afternoon  danc- 
ing at  the  Hall .  . 


Chapter  n 

Which  is  the  more  perilous,  to  meet  the 
temptings  of  Eve,  or  to  pique  her? 

George  Meredith 

Of  course  he  reached  the  Lawrence  Hall  egregiously  late,  to  find 
the  afternoon  dancing  that  Lahore  prescribes  three  times  a  week 
in  full  swing. 

The  lofty  pillared  Hall  —  an  aristocrat  among  Station  Clubs 
—  was  more  crowded  than  usual.  More  than  half  the  polished 
floor  was  uncovered;  the  rest  carpeted  and  furnished  for  lookers- 
on.  Here  Mrs.  Elton  still  diffused  her  exuberant  air  of  patronage; 
sailing  majestically  from  group  to  group  of  her  recent  guests, 
and  looking  more  than  life-size  in  lavender  satin  besprinkled 
with  old  lace. 

Roy  hurried  past,  lest  she  discover  him;  and,  from  the  security 
of  an  arched  alcove,  scanned  the  more  interesting  half  of  the 
Hall.  There  went  little  Mrs.  Hunter-Ranyard,  a  fluffy,  pussy- 
cat person,  with  soft  eyes  and  soft  manners  —  and  claws.  She 
was  one  of  those  disconnected  wives  whom  he  was  beginning  to 
recognize  as  a  feature  of  the  country:  imobtrusively  owned  by  a 
dyspeptic-looking  Divisional  Judge;  hospitable  and  lively,  and 
an  infallible  authority  on  other  people's  private  affairs.  Like 
too  many  modem  Anglo-Indians,  she  prided  herself  on  keeping 
airily  apart  from  the  country  of  her  exile.  Natives  gave  her  *  the 
creeps.'  Useless  to  argue.  Her  retort  was  im varying  and  un- 
answerable. "East  is  East  —  and  I'm  not.  It's  a  country  of 
horrors,  under  a  thin  layer  of  tinsel.  Don't  talk  to  me  —  I " 
Lance  Desmond  had  achieved  fame  among  the  subalterns  by 
christening  her  'Mrs.  Banter- Wrangle';, but  he  liked  her  well 
enough,  on  the  whole,  to  hope  she  would  never  find  him  out. 

She  whirled  past,  now,  on  the  arm  of  Talbot  Hayes,  senior 
Assistant  Commissioner;,  an  exceedingly  superior  person  who 
shared  her  views  about  'the  country.'  Catching  Roy's  eye,  she 
feigned  exaggerated  siuprise  and  fluttered  a  friendly  hand. 


298  FAR  TO  SEEK 

His  response  was  automatic.  He  had  just  discovered  Miss 
Arden  —  with  Lance,  of  course,  —  excelling  herself,  in  a  moon- 
coloured  gown  with  a  dull-gold  sash  carelessly  knotted  on  one 
side.  Her  graceful  hat  v/as  of  gold  tissue,  unadorned.  Near  the 
edge  of  the  brim  lay  one  yellow  rose;  and  a  rope  of  amber  beads 
hung  well  below  her  waist.  Roy  —  son  of  Lilamani  —  had  an 
artist's  eye  for  details  of  dress,  for  harmony  of  tone  and  line, 
which  this  girl  probably  achieved  by  mere  feminine  instinct. 
The  fool  he  was,  to  have  come  so  late!  When  they  stopped,  he 
would  catch  her  and  plead  for  an  extra,  at  least. 

Meantime  a  pity  to  waste  this  one;  and  there  was  poor  little 
Miss  Delawney  sitting  out,  as  usual,  in  her  skimpy  pink  frock 
and  black  hat;  trying  so  hard  not  to  look  forlorn  that  he  felt 
sorry  for  her.  She  was  tacitly  barred  by  most  of  the  men  because 
she  was  ^cafe  au  lait ','  — a  delicate  allusion  to  the  precise  amount 
of  Indian  blood  in  her  veins. 

He  had  not,  so  far,  come  across  many  specimens  of  these 
pathetic  half-and-halfs,  who  seemed  to  inhabit  a  racial  No- 
Man's-Land.  But  Lahore  was  full  of  them;  minor  officials  in 
the  Railway  and  the  Post-OfBce;  living,  more  or  less,  in  a  sub- 
stratimi  of  their  own  kind.  He  gathered  that  they  were  regarded 
as  a  'problem'  by  the  thoughtful  few,  and  simply  turned  down 
by  the  rest.  He  felt  an  acute  sympathy  for  them:  also  —  in 
hidden  depths  —  a  vague  distaste.  Most  of  those  he  had  encoim- 
tered  were  so  obviously  of  no  particular  caste,  in  either  country's 
estimate  of  the  word,  that  he  had  never  associated  them  with 
himself.  He  saw  himself,  rather,  as  of  double  caste;  a  fusion  of 
the  best  in  both  races.  The  writer  of  that  wonderful  letter  had 
said  he  was  different;  and  presumably  she  knew.  Whether  the 
average  Anglo-Indian  would  see  any  diUerence,  he  had  not  the 
remotest  idea;  and,  so  far,  he  had  scarcely  given  the  matter  a 
thought. 

Here,  however,  it  was  thrust  upon  his  attention;  nor  had  he 
failed  to  notice  that  Lance  never  mentioned  the  Jaipur  cousins 
except  when  they  were  alone:  —  whether  by  chance  or  design, 
he  did  not  choose  to  ask.  And  if  either  of  the  other  fellows  had 
noticed  his  mother's  photograph,  or  felt  a  glimmer  of  curiosity, 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  299 

no  word  had  been  said.  After  all,  what  concern  was  it  of  all 
these  chance-met  folk?  He  was  nothing  to  them;  and  to  him 
they  were  mainly  a  pleasant  change  from  the  absorbing  business 
of  his  novel  and  the  problems  of  India  in  transition. 

And  the  poor  little  girl  in  the  skimpy  frock  was  an  unconscious 
fragment  of  that  problem.  Too  pathetic  to  see  how  she  tried  not 
to  look  round  hopefully  whenever  masculine  footsteps  came  her 
way!  Why  shouldn't  he  give  her  a  pleasant  surprise? 

She  succeeded,  this  time,  in  not  looking  roimd;  so  the  surprise 
came  off  to  his  satisfaction.  She  was  nervous  and  unpractised, 
and  he  constantly  found  her  feet  where  they  had  no  business  to 
be.  But  sooner  than  hurt  her  feelings,  he  piloted  her  twice  round 
the  room  before  stopping;  and  found  himself  next  to  Mrs. 
Himter-Ranyard,  who  'snuggled  up'  to  him  (the  phrase  was 
Barnard's)  and  proffered  consolation  after  her  kind. 

"Bad  boy!  You  missed  the  cream  of  the  afternoon,  but 
you're  not  quite  too  late.  I'm  free  for  the  next." 

Roy,  fairly  cornered,  could  only  bow  and  smile  his  acceptance. 
And  after  his  arduous  prelude,  Mrs.  Ranyard's  dancing  was  an 
effortless  delight  —  if  only  she  would  not  spoil  it  by  her  unceasing 
ripple  of  talk.  His  lack  of  response  troubled  her  no  whit.  She 
was  bubbling  over  with  caustic  comment  on  Mrs.  Elton's  latest 
adventure  in  matrimony. 

"She's  a  mighty  hunter  before  the  Lord!  She  marked  down 
poor  Hilton  last  cold  weather,"  cooed  the  silken  voice  in  Roy's 
inattentive  ear.  "Of  course  you  know  he's  one  of  our  coming 
men!  And  I've  a  shrewd  idea  he  was  intended  for  Rose.  But  in 
Miss  Rose  the  matchmaker  has  met  her  match!  She's  clever  — 
that  girl;  and  she's  reduced  the  tactics  of  non-resistance  to  a 
fine  art.  I  don't  believe  she  ever  stands  up  to  her  mother.  She 
smiles  and  smiles  —  and  goes  her  own  way.  She  Ukes  playing 
with  soldiers;  partly  because  they're  good  company;  partly,  I'll 
swear,  because  she  knows  it  keeps  her  mother  on  tenterhooks. 
But  when  it  comes  to  business,  I'm  convinced  she'll  choose  as 
shrewdly  —  " 

Roy  stopped  dancing  in  despair,  and  confronted  her,  half 
laughing,  half  irate.  "If  you're  keen  on  talking  —  let's  talk.  I 


300  FAR  TO  SEEK 

can't  do  both."  He  stated  the  fact  politely,  but  with  decision. 
"And  —  frankly,  I  hate  hearing  a  girl  pulled  to  pieces,  just  be- 
cause she's  charming  and  good-looking  and  —  " 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy,"  she  interrupted  unfailingly  —  sweet 
solicitude  in  her  lifted  gaze.  "Did  I  trample  on  your  chivalrous 
toes?  Or  is  it  — ?" 

"No,  it  isn't,"  he  contradicted,  resenting  the  bare-faced  im- 
plication. "Naturally  —  I  admire  her  —  " 

"Oh,  naturally!  You  can't  help  yourselves,  any  of  you! 
She's  'sooner  caught  than  the  pestilence,  and  the  taker  runs 
presently  mad.'  No  use  looking  daggers.  It's  a  fact.  I  don't 
say  she  flirts  outrageously  —  like  I  do.  She  simply  expects 
homage  —  and  gets  it.  She  expects  men  to  fall  in  love  with  her  — 
and  they  topple  over  like  ninepins.  Sometimes  —  when  I'm 
feeling  magnanimous  —  I  catch  a  ninepin  as  it  falls!  Look  at  her 
now,  with  that  R.E.  boy  —  plainly  in  the  toils!" 

Roy  declined  to  look.  If  she  was  trying  to  put  him  off  Miss 
Arden,  she  was  on  the  wrong  tack.  Besides  —  he  wanted  to  dance. 

"  One  more  turn?  "  he  suggested,  nipping  a  fresh  outbreak  in 
the  bud.  "But  please  —  no  talking." 

She  laughed  and  shook  her  fan  at  him.  "Epicure!"  But  after 
all,  it  was  an  indirect  compliment  to  her  dancing:  and  for  the 
space  of  two  minutes  she  held  her  peace. 

Throughout  the  brief  pause  she  rippled  on,  with  negligible 
interludes;  but  not  till  they  re-entered  the  Hall  did  she  revert 
to  the  theme  that  had  so  exasperated  Roy.  There  she  espied 
Desmond,  standing  under  an  archway,  staring  straight  before 
him;  apparently  lost  in  thought. 

She  indicated  him,  discreetly,  with  her  fan.  "The  Happy 
Warrior  (that's  my  private  Dame  for  him)  seems  to  have  some- 
thing on  his  mind  v  Can  he  have  proposed  —  at  last?  I  confess 
I'm  curious.  But  ol  course  you  know  all  about  it,  Mr.  Sinclair. 
Don't  tell  me/" 

"I  won't! "  said  Roy  gravely.  "  You  probably  know  more  than 
I  do." 

"  But  I  thought  you  were  such  intimate  friends?  How  superbly 
masculine!" 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  301 

"Well  — he  is." 

"Oh,  he  is!  He's  so  firmly  planted  on  his  feet  that  he  tacitly 
invites  one  to  tilt  at  him !  I  confess  I've  already  tried  my  hand  — 
and  failed  signally.  So  it  soothes  my  vanity  to  observe  that  even 
the  Rose  of  Sharon  isn't  visibly  upsetting  his  balance.  Frankly, 
I'm  more  than  a  little  intrigued  over  that  affair.  It  seems  to 
have  reached  a  certain  point  and  stuck  there.  At  one  time  —  I 
thought  —  " 

Her  thought  remained  unuttered.  Roy  was  patently  not  at- 
tending. Rose  Arden  and  the  *R.E.  boy'  had  just  entered  the 
HaU. 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you,"  she  added  sweetly.  "It's  evident 
she's  the  next!" 

Roy  collected  himself  with  a  jerk.  "You're  wiser  than  I  ami 
I've  not  asked  her  yet." 

"Then  you  can  save  yourself  the  trouble  and  go  on  dancing 
with  me.  She's  always  booked  up  ahead  —  " 

Her  blue  eyes  challenged  him  laughingly;  but  he  caught  the 
undernote  of  rivalry.  For  half  a  second  the  scales  hung  even 
between  courtesy  and  inclination;  then,  from  the  tail  of  his  eye, 
he  saw  Hayes  bearing  down  upon  the  other  pair.  That  decided 
him.  He  had  conceived  an  imreasoning  dislike  of  Talbot  Hayes. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said  politely.  "But  —  I  sent  word  I 
was  coming  in  for  the  dancing;  and  —  " 

"Oh,  go  along,  then,  and  get  your  fingers  burnt,  as  you 
deserve.  But  never  say  /  didn't  try  and  save  them!" 

Roy  laughed.  "They  aren't  in  any  danger,  thanks  very 
much!" 

Just  as  he  reached  Miss  Arden,  the  R.E.  boy  left  her;  and 
Lance,  forsaking  his  pillar,  strolled  casually  to  ler  side. 

She  greeted  Roy  with  a  faint  lift  of  her  brows. 

"Was  I  unspeakable  —  ?  I  apologise,"  he  said  impulsively; 
and  her  smile  absolved  him.  ^    , 

"You  were  wiser  than  you  knew.  You  escaped  an  infliction. 
It  was  insufferably  dull.  We  all  smiled  and  smiled  till  there  were 
'miles  and  miles  of  smiles*  and  we  were  all  bored  to  extinctipnl 
Ask  Major  Desmond!" 


302  FAR  TO  SEEK 

She  acknowledged  his  presence  with  a  sidelong  glance.  He 
returned  it  with  a  quick  look  that  told  Roy  he  had  been  touched 
on  the  raw. 

"As  I  spent  most  of  the  time  talking  to  you  —  and  as  you've 
frankly  recorded  your  sensations,  I'd  rather  be  excused,"  he  said 
with  a  touch  of  stiffness.  "  Your  innings,  I  suppose,  old  man?  " 
he  added  with  a  friendly  nod  as  he  moved  away. 

Roy.  watching  him  go,  felt  almost  angry  with  the  girl;  and 
impetuously  spoke  his  thought:  "'Poor  old  Desmond!  What 
did  you  give  him  a  knock  for?  He  couldn't  be  dull,  if  he  tried." 

"N-no,"  she  agreed,  without  removing  her  eyes  from  his  re- 
treating figure.  "But  sometimes  —  he  can  be  aggressive." 

"I've  never  noticed  it." 

"How  long  have  you  known  him?" 

"A  trifle  of  fifteen  years." 

Her  brows  went  up.    '  Quite  a  romantic  friendship?  " 

Roy  nodded.  He  did  not  choose  to  discuss  his  feeling  for 
Lance  with  this  cool,  compelling  young  woman.  Yet  her  very 
coolness  goaded  him  to  add:  *I  suppose  men  see  more  dearly 
than  women  that  —  he's  one  in  a  thousand." 

"I'm  —  not  so  sure  —  " 

"Yet  you  snub  him  as  if  he  was  a  tin-pot  'sub.'" 

His  resentment  would  out;  but  the  smile  in  her  eyes  dis- 
armed him.  "Was  it  as  bad  as  that?  What  a  pair  you  are! 
Don't  worry.  He  and  I  know  each  other's  little  ways  by  now." 

It  was  not  quite  convincing;  but  Lance  would  not  thank  him 
for  interfering;  and  the  band  had  struck  up.  No  sign  of  a  part- 
ner. It  seemed  the  luck  was  'in.' 

"Did  Desmond  give  you  my  message?"  he  asked. 

"No  — what?" 

"Only  —  that  I  hoped  you'd  be  magnanimous....  Is 
there  a  chance  —  ?  " 

Her  eyes  rested  deliberately  on  his;  and  the  last  spark  of 
resentment  flickered  out.  "More  than  you  deserve!  But  this 
one  does  happen  to  be  free  ..." 

"Well,  we  won't  waste  any  of  it,"  said  he:  —  and  they  danced 
without  a  break,  without  a  word,  till  the  perfect  accord  of  their 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  303 

rhythmical  circling  and  swa)dng  ceased  with  the  last  notes  of 
the  valse. 

That  was  the  real  thing,  thought  Roy,  but  felt  too  shy  for 
compliments;  and  they  merely  exchanged  a  smile.  He  had  felt 
the  pleasvire  was  mutual.  Now  he  knew  it. 

Out  through  the  tall  portico  they  passed  into  the  cool  green 
gardens,  freshly  watered,  exhaling  a  smell  of  moist  earth  and 
the  fragrance  of  unnumbered  roses  —  a  very  whiff  of  Home: 
bushes,  standards,  ramblers;  and  everywhere  —  flaimting  its 
supremacy  —  the  Marechal  Niel,  sprawling  over  hedges, 
scrambling  up  evergreens,  and  falling  again  in  cascades  of  moon- 
yellow  blossoms  and  glossy  leaves. 

Roy,  keenly  alive  to  the  exquisite  mingling  of  scent  and  colour 
and  evening  lights,  was  still  more  alive  to  the  silent  girl  at  his 
side,  who  seemed  to  radiate  both  the  lure  and  the  subtle  antago- 
nism of  sex  —  in  itself  an  inverted  form  of  fascination. 

They  had  strolled  half  round  the  empty  bandstand  before  she 
remarked,  in  her  cool,  low-pitched  voice:  "You  really  are  a 
flagrantly  casual  person,  Mr.  Sinclair.  I  sometimes  wonder  —  is 
it  quite  spontaneous^  Or  —  do  you  find  it  effective?" 

Roy  frankly  turned  and  stared  at  her  "Effective?  What 
a  question!" 

Her  smile  puzzled  and  disconcerted  him. 

"Well,  you've  answered  it  with  your  usual  pristine  frankness  I 
I  see  —  it  was  not  intentional." 

"Why  should  it  be?" 

"Oh,  if  you  don't  know  — I  don't!  I  merely  wondered  — 
You  see,  you  did  say  definitely  you  would  come  to  the  reception. 
So  of  course  —  I  expected  you.  Then  you  never  turned  up. 
And  —  naturally  —  ! " 

A  ghost  of  a  shrug  completed  the  sentence. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  didn't  flatter  myself  you'd  notice  —  " 
Roy  said  simply.  There  were  moments  when  she  made  him  feel 
vexatiously  young.  "You  see  —  it  was  my  novel  —  got  me  by 
the  hair.  And  when  that  happens,  I'm  rather  apt  to  let  things 
slide.  Anyway,  you  got  the  better  man  of  the  two.  And  if  you 
found  him  dull,  I'd  have  been  nowhere." 


304  FAR  TO  SEEK 

She  was  silent  a  moment.  Then:  "I  think  —  if  you  don't 
mind  —  we'll  leave  Major  Desmond  out  of  it,"  she  said;  adding, 
with  a  distinct  change  of  tone:  "What's  the  hidden  charm  in  that 
common  little  Miss  Delawney?  I  saw  you  dancing  with  her  again 
to-day." 

The  subtle  flattery  of  the  question  might  have  taken  effect 
had  it  not  followed  on  her  perplexing  remark  about  Lance.  As 
it  was,  he  resented  it. 

"Why  not?  She's  quite  a  nice  little  person." 

"I  dare  say.  But  we've  plenty  of  nice  girls  in  our  own  set." 

"Oh,  plenty.  But  I  rather  bar  set  mania.  I've  a  catholic 
taste  in  human  beings!" 

"And  I've  an  ultra-fastidious  one!"  Look  and  tone  gave  her 
statement  a  delicately  personal  flavour.  "Besides,  out  here.  .  . 
there  are  limits ..." 

"And  I  must  respect  them,  on  penalty  of  your  displeasure?" 
His  tone  was  airily  defiant.  "Well  —  make  me  out  a  list  of  irre- 
proachables;  and  I'll  work  them  off  in  rotation — between  whiles' " 

The  implication  of  that  last  subtly  made  amends:  and  she 
had  a  taste  for  the  minor  subtleties  of  intercourse. 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind!  You're  perfectly  graceless 
this  evening!  I  suspect  all  that  scribbling  goes  to  your  head 
sometimes.  Sitting  on  Oljonpian  heights,  controlling  destinies! 
I  suppose  we  earthworms  down  below  all  look  pretty  much  alike? 
To  discriminate  between  mere  partners  —  is  human.  To  em- 
brace them  indiscriminately  —  divine!" 

Roy  laughed.  "Oh,  if  it  came  to  embracing  —  " 

"Even  an  Ol3mipian  might  be  a  shade  less  catholic?"  she 
queried  with  one  of  her  looks  that  stirred  in  Roy  sensations  far 
removed  from  Olympian.  Random  talk  did  not  flourish  in  Miss 
Arden's  company:  deUcately,  insistently,  she  steered  it  back  to 
the  focal  point  of  interest  —  herself  and  the  man  of  the  moment. 

From  the  circular  drive  they  wandered  on,  unheeding;  and 
when  they  re-entered  the  Hall  a  fresh  dance  had  begun.  Under 
the  arch  they  paused.  Miss  Arden's  glance  scanned  the  room  and 
reverted  to  Roy.  The  last  ten  minutes  had  appreciably  advanced 
their  intimacy. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  305 

"Shall  we?"  he  asked,  returning  her  look  with  interest.  "Is 
the  luck  in  again?" 

Her  eyes  assented.  He  slipped  an  arm  round  her  —  and  once 
more  they  danced  .  .  . 

Roy  had  been  Olympian  indeed,  had  he  not  perceived  the 
delicate  flattery  implied  in  his  apparent  luck.  Lance  had  not 
even  given  his  message.  Yet  those  two  dances  were  available. 
The  inference  was  not  without  its  insidious  effect  upon  a  man 
temperamentally  incapable  of  conceit.  The  valse  was  nearly 
half  over  when  the  least  little  drag  on  his  arm  so  surprised  him 
that  he  stopped  almost  opposite  the  main  archway :  —  and  caught 
sight  of  Lance,  evidently  looking  for  someone. 

"Oh  —  there  he  is  I"  Miss  Arden's  low  tone  was  almost 
flurried  —  for  her. 

"  D 'you  want  hun?" 
I     "Well  —  I  suppose  he  wants  me.  This  was  his  dance." 

"Good  Lord!  What  a  mean  shame!"  Roy  flashed  out.  "Why 
on  earth  didn't  you  tell  me?  I'd  have  found  him." 

Her  colour  rose  under  his  heated  protest.  "  I  never  hang  about 
for  unpunctual  partners.  If  they  don't  turn  up  in  time  —  it's 
their  loss." 

Roy,  intent  on  Lance,  was  scarcely  listening.  "He's  seen  us 
now.  Come  along.  Let's  explain." 

It  was  Miss  Arden  who  did  the  explaining  in  a  manner  all  her 
own. 

"  Well  —  what  became  of  you?  "  she  asked,  smiling  in  response 
to  Desmond's  look  of  interrogation.  "As  you  didn't  appear,  I 
concluded  you'd  either  forgotten  or  been  caught  in  a  rub- 
ber." 

"Bad  shots  — both,"  Desmond  retorted  with  a  direct  look. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  —  I  hadn't  a  notion  —  "  Roy  began  — 
and  checked  himself,  perceiving  that  he  could  not  say  muah  with- 
out implicating  his  partner. 

This  time  Desmond's  smile  had  quite  another  quality.  "You 
*re  very  welcome.  Carry  on.  Don't  mind  me.  It's  half  over." 

"A  model  of  generosity!"  Miss  Arden  applauded  him. 
"I'm  free  for  the  next  —  if  you'd  care  to  have  it  instead." 


3o6  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Thanks  very  much;  but  I'm  not,"  Desmond  answered 
serenely. 

"The  great  little  Banter-Wrangle  —  is  it?  You  could  plead 
a  misunderstanding  and  bribe  Mr.  Sinclair  to  save  the  situa- 
tion!" 

"Hard  luck  on  Sinclair.  But  it's  not  Mrs.  Ranyard.  I'm 
sorry  —  " 

"Don't  apologise.  If  you're  satisfied,  I  am." 

For  all  her  careless  tone,  Roy  had  never  seen  her  so  nearly 
put  out  of  countenance.  Desmond  said  nothing;  and  for  a  mo- 
ment —  the  briefest  —  there  fell  an  awkward  silence.  Then  with 
an  air  of  marked  graciousness  she  turned  to  Roy. 

"We  are  generously  permitted  to  go  on  with  a  clear 
conscience!" 

But  for  Roy  the  charm  was  broken.  Her  cavalier  treatment  of 
Lance  annoyed  him;  and  beneath  the  surface  play  of  looks  and 
words  he  had  detected  the  flash  of  steel.  It  was  some  satisfaction 
to  feel  that  Lance  had  given  as  good  as  he  received.  But  he  felt 
troubled  and  curious.  And  he  was  likely  to  remain  so.  Lance, 
he  very  well  knew,  would  say  precisely  nothing.  And  the  girl 
as  if  divining  his  thoughts,  combated  them  with  the  delicately, 
appointed  weapons  of  her  kind  —  and  pre\'ailed. 

Again  they  wandered  in  the  darkening  garden  and  returned 
to  find  the  Boston  in  full  swing.  Again  Miss  Arden's  glance 
traveled  casually  round  the  room.  And  Roy  saw  her  start; 
just  enough  to  swear  by .  .  . 

Desmond  was  dancing  with  Miss  Delawney  —  1 

The  frivolous  comment  on  Roy's  lips  was  checked  by  the  look 
in  his  partner's  eyes.  Impossible  not  to  wonder  if  Lance  had  ac- 
tually been  engaged;  or  if  —  ?  In  any  case  —  a  knock  for  Miss 
Arden's  vanity.  A  shade  too  severe,  perhaps;  yet  sympathy  for 
her  was  tinged  with  exultation  that  Lance  had  held  his  own. 
Mrs.  Ranyard  was  right.  Here  was  a  man  set  firmly  on  his 
feet .  .  . 

Miss  Arden's  voice  drew  his  wandering  attention  back  to  her- 
self. "We  may  as  well  finish  this.  Or  are  you  also  —  engaged?" 

Her  light  stress  on  the  word  held  a  significance  he  did  not  miss. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  307 

"  To  you  —  if  you  will ! "  he  answered  gallantiy,  hand  on  heart. 
"It's  more  than  I  deserve  —  as  you  said;  but  still  —  " 

"It's  just  possible  for  a  woman  to  be  magnanimous!"  she 
capped  him,  smiling.  "And  it's  just  possible  for  a  man  to  be  — 
the  other  thing!  Remember  that  —  when  you  get  back  to  your 
eternal  scribbling!" 

An  hour  later  he  rode  homeward  with  a  fine  confusion  of  sen- 
sations and  impressions,  doubts  and  desires,  seething  in  his 
brain.  Miss  Arden  was  delightful,  but  a  trifle  unsettling.  She 
must  not  be  allowed  to  distract  him  from  the  work  he  loved. 


Chapter  III 

Beauty,  when  you  ore  sensitive  to  it,  is  the  devil. 

John  Galsworthy 

But  neither  the  work  he  loved  nor  his  budding  intimacy  with 
Miss  Arden  deterred  him  from  accepting  a  week-end  invitation 
from  the  Rajah  of  Kapurthala  —  the  friendly,  hospitable  ruler 
of  a  neighbouring  Sikh  State.  The  Colonel  was  going,  and  Lance, 
and  half  a  dozen  other  good  sportsmen.  They  set  out  on  Thurs- 
day, the  military  holiday,  in  a  state  of  high  good-humour  with 
themselves  and  their  host;  to  return  on  Sunday  evening,  re- 
newed in  body  and  mind  by  the  pursuit  of  pig  and  the  spirit  of 
Shikar,  that  keeps  a  man  sane  and  virile,  and  tempers  the 
insidious  effect,  on  the  white  races,  of  life  and  work  in  the  climate 
of  India.  It  draws  men  away  from  the  rather  cramping  Station 
atmosphere.  It  sets  their  feet  in  a  large  room.  And  in  this  case 
it  did  not  fail  to  dispel  the  light  cloud  that  had  hovered  between 
Lance  and  Roy  since  the  day  of  the  wedding. 

In  the  friendly  rivalries  of  sport  it  was  possible  to  forget  woman 
complications;  even  to  feel  it  a  trifle  derogatory  that  one  should 
be  so  ignominiously  at  the  mercy  of  the  thing.  Thus  Roy, 
indulging  in  a  spasmodic  declaration  of  independence,  glorying 
in  the  virile  excitement  of  pig-sticking  and  the  triumph  of  get- 
ting first  spear. 

But  returning  on  Saturday,  from  a  day  after  snipe  and  teal, 
he  found  himself  instinctively  allotting  the  pick  of  his  'bag'  to 
Miss  Arden;  just  a  complimentary  attention;  the  sort  of  thing 
she  would  appreciate.  Having  refused  a  ride  with  her  because  of 
this  outing,  it  seemed  the  least  he  could  do. 

Apparently  the  same  strikingly  original  idea  had  occurred 
to  Lance;  and  by  the  merest  fluke  they  found  one  another  out. 
To  Roy's  relief  Lance  greeted  the  embarrassing  discovery  with 
a  gust  of  laughter. 

"I  say  —  this  won't  do.  You  give  over.  It's  too  much  of  a 
joke.  Besides  —  cheek  on  your  part." 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  309 

_  ^Though  he  spoke  lightly,  the  hint  of  command  m  his  tone 
promptly  put  Roy  on  the  defensive. 

'  "Rot!  Why  shouldn't  I?  But  — the  two  of  them.  .  .  !  A 
bit  overwhelming!"  And  suddenly  he  remembered  his  declara- 
tion of  independence.  "After  all  —  why  should  either  of  us? 
Can't  we  let  be,  just  for  four  days?  —  Look  here.  Lance.  You 
give  over  too.  Don't  send  yoiur  dali.^  And  I  won't  send  mine." 

Lance  —  having  considered  that  inspired  proposal  —  turned 
a  speculative  eye  on  Roy. 

"Lord,  what  a  kid  you  are,  still!'* 

"Well,  I  mean  it.  Out  here,  we're  clear  of  all  that.  Over 
there,  the  women  call  the  tune  —  we  dance.  Sport's  the  God- 
given  antidote!  Though  it  won't  be  so  much  longer  —  the  way 
things  are  going.  We  shall  have  'em  after  pig  and  on  the  polo 
ground  —  " 

"God  forbid!"  It  came  out  with  such  fervour  that  Roy 
laughed. 

" He  doesn't  —  that's  the  trouble!  He  gives  us  all  the  rope  we 
want.  And  the  women  may  be  trusted  to  take  every  available 
inch.  I'm  not  sure  there  isn't  a  grain  of  wisdom  in  the  Eastern 
plan;  keeping  them,  so  to  speak,  in  a  separate  compartment. 
Once  you  open  a  chink,  they  flow  in  and  swamp  everything." 

Up  went  Lance's  eyebrows.  "That  —  from  you?" 

And  Roy  made  haste  to  add:  "I  wasn't  thinking  of  mothers 
and  sisters;  but  the  kind  you  play  roimd  with  —  before  you 
marry.  They've  a  big  pull  out  here.  Very  good  fim,  of  couxse. 
And  if  a  man's  keen  on  marr3dng  —  " 

"Aren't  you  keen?"  Lance  cut  in  with  a  quick  look. 

"N-no.  Not  just  yet,  anyway.  It's  a  plunge.  And  I'm  too 
full  up  with  other  things.  —  But  what  about  the  birds?" 

"Oh,  we'll  let  be  —  as  you  sagely  suggest!'* 

And  they  did. 

More  pig-sticking  next  morning,  with  two  tuskers  for  trophies; 
and  thereafter  they  travelled  reluctantly  back  to  harness,  by  an 
afternoon  train,  feeling  —  without  exception  —  healthier,  hap- 
pier men. 

*  OfiFering. 


3IO  FAR  TO  SEEK 

None  ot  tnem,  perhaps,  was  more  conscious  of  that  inner  re- 
newal than  Lance  and  Roy.  The  incident  of  the  dalis  seemed  in 
some  way  to  have  cleared  the  air  between  them;  and  throughout 
the  return  journey,  both  were  in  the  maddest  spirits;  keeping 
the  whole  carriage  in  an  uproar.  Afterwards,  driving  homeward, 
Roy  registered  a  resolve  to  spend  more  of  his  time  on  masculine 
society  and  the  novel;  less  of  it  dancing  and  fooling  about  in 
Lahore.  .  .  . 

A  vision  of  his  table,  with  its  inviting  disarray,  and  the  pic- 
ture of  his  mother  for  presiding  genius,  gave  his  heart  a  lift.  He 
promised  himself  a  week  of  uninterrupted  evenings,  alone  with 
Terry  and  his  thronging  thoughts;  when  the  whole  house  was 
still  and  the  reading-lamp  made  a  magic  circle  of  light  in  the  sur- 
rounding gloom .  .  . 

Meantime  there  were  letters:  one  from  his  father,  one  from 
Jeffers;  and  beneath  them  a  yellow  envelope  delicately  fragrant. 

At  sight  of  it  he  felt  a  faint  tug  inside  him;  as  it  were  a  whis- 
pered reminder  that,  away  at  Kapurthala,  he  had  been  about  as 
free  as  a  bird  with  a  string  round  its  leg.  He  resented  the  aptness 
of  that  degrading  simile.  It  was  a  new  sensation;  and  he  did 
not  relish  it.  The  few  women  he  intimately  loved  had  counted 
for  so  much  in  liis  life  that  he  scarcely  realised  his  abysmal  ig- 
norance of  the  power  that  is  in  woman  —  the  mere  opposite  of 
man;  the  implicit  challenge,  the  potent  lure.  Partly  from  tem- 
perament, partly  from  principle,  he  had  kept  more  or  less  clear 
of  'all  that.'  Now,  weaponless,  he  had  rashly  entered  the  lists. 

He  opened  Miss  Arden's  note  feeling  vaguely  antagonistic. 
But  its  friendly  tone  disarmed  him.  She  hoped  they  had  enjoyed 
themselves  mightily  and  slain  enough  creatures  to  satisfy  their 
primitive  instincts.  And  her  mother  hoped  Mr.  Sinclair  would 
dine  with  them  on  Wednesday  evening:  quite  a  small  affair. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  refuse;  but  her  allusion  to  the  slain 
creatures  touched  up  his  conscience.  To  cap  the  omission  by  re- 
fusing her  invitation  might  annoy  her.  No  sense  in  that.  So  he 
decided  to  accept;  and  sat  down  to  enjoy  his  Home  letters  at 
leisure. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  311 

Lance,  it  transpired,  had  not  been  asked.  He  and  Barnard 
were  the  favoured  ones  —  and,  on  the  appointed  evenmg,  they 
drove  in  together.  Roy  had  been  writing  nearly  all  day.  He  had 
reached  a  point  in  his  chapter  at  which  a  break  was  simply 
distracting.  Yet  here  he  was,  driving  Barnard  to  Lahore,  curs- 
ing his  luck,  and  —  yes  —  trying  to  ignore  a  flutter  of  anticipa- 
tion in  the  region  of  his  heart. .  .  . 

As  far  as  mere  lust  of  the  eye  went  —  and  it  went  a  good  way 
with  Roy  —  he  had  his  reward  the  moment  he  entered  Mrs. 
,  Elton's  overloaded  drawing-room.  Rose  Arden  excelled  herself 
I  in  evenmg  dress.  The  carriage  of  her  head,  the  curve  of  her 
throat,  and  the  admirable  line  from  ear  to  shoulder  made  a  pic- 
ture supremely  satisfying  to  his  artist's  eye.  Her  neghgible  bod- 
ice was  a  filmy  affair  —  ivory  white  with  glints  of  gold.  Her 
gauzy  gold  wedding  sash,  swathed  round  her  hips,  fell  in  a 
frmged  knot  below  her  knee.  Filmy  sleeves  floated  from  her 
shoulders,  leaving  the  arms  bare  and  unadorned,  except  for  one 
gold  bangle,  high  up  —  the  latest  note  from  Home.  For  the  rest 
—  her  rope  of  ripe  amber  beads  and  long  earrings  only  a  few 
tones  lighter  than  her  astonishing  hazel  eyes. 

Face  to  face  with  her  beauty,  and  her  discreetly  veiled  pleasure 
at  sight  of  him,  he  could  not  be  ungracious  enough  to  curse  his 
luck.  But  his  satisfaction  cooled  at  sight  of  Talbot  Hayes  by  the 
mantelpiece,  inchning  his  polished  angiilarity  to  catch  some  con- 
fidential tit-bit  from  little  Mrs.  Hunter-Ranyard.  Of  course  that 
fellow  would  take  her  in.  He,  Roy,  had  no  official  position  now; 
and  without  it  one  was  negligible  in  Anglo-India.  Besides,  Mrs. 
Elton  openly  favoured  Talbot  Hayes.  FaiUng  Rose,  there  were 
two  more  prospective  brides  at  Home  —  twins;  and  Hayes  was 
fatally  endowed  with  all  the  surface  symptoms  of  the  'coming 
man':  the  supple  alertness  and  self-assurance;  the  instinct  for 
the  right  thing;  and  —  supreme  asset  in  these  days  — a 
studious  detachment  from  the  people  and  the  country.  In  con- 
sequence, needless  to  say,  he  remained  obstinately  sceptical  as 
regards  the  rising  storm. 
Very  early  Roy  had  put- out  feelers  to  disrover  how  much  he 


312  FAR  TO  SEEK 

understood  or  cared;  and  Hayes  had  blandly  assured  him: 
"Bengal  may  bluster  and  the  D.C.  may  pessimise,  but  you  can 
take  it  from  me,  there  will  be  no  serious  upheaval  in  the  North. 
If  ever  these  people  are  fools  enough  to  manoeuvre  us  out  of  India, 
so  much  the  worse  for  them;  so  much  the  better  for  us.  It's  a 
beastly  country." 

Nevertheless  Roy  observed  that  he  appeared  to  extract  out  of 
the  beastly  country  every  available  ounce  of  enjoyment.  In 
atfable  moments  he  could  even  nanage  to  forget  his  career  — 
and  unbend.  He  was  unbending  now. 

A  few  paces  off,  the  dyspeptic  Judge  was  discussing  *  the  situa- 
tion' with  his  host  —  a  large,  unwieldy  man,  so  nervous  of  his 
own  bulk  and  unready  wit,  that  only  the  discerning  few  discov- 
ered the  sensitive,  friendly  spirit  very  completely  hidden  under 
a  bushel.  Roy,  who  had  liked  him  at  sight,  felt  vaguely  sorry 
for  him.  He  seemed  a  fish  out  of  water  in  his  own  home;  over- 
whelmed by  the  florid,  assured  personality  of  his  wife. 

They  were  the  last,  of  course;  nearly  five  minutes  late.  Trust 
Roy.  Only  four  other  guests:  Dr.  Ethel  Wemyss,  M.B.,  lively 
and  clever  and  new  to  the  country;  Major  and  Mrs.  Garten,  of 
the  Sikhs,  with  a  stohd,  good-humoured  daughter,  who  unfail- 
ingly wore  the  same  frock  and  the  same  disarming  smile. 

The  Deputy  Commissioner's  wife  permitted  herself  few  mili'^ 
tary  intimates.  But  she  had  come  in  touch  with  Mrs.  Garten 
over  a  dhoWs  *  chit  and  a  recipe  for  pumelo  gin.  Both  women 
were  consumedly  Anglo-Indian.  All  their  values  were  social:  — 
pay,  promotion,  prestige.  All  their  lamentations  pitched  in  the 
same  key:  —  everything  dearer,  servants  'impossible,*  hospital- 
ity extinct  with  every  one  saving  and  scraping  to  get  Home. 
Both  were  deeply  versed  in  bazaar  prices  and  the  sins  of  native 
servants.  Hence,  in  due  course,  a  friendship  (according  to  Mrs. 
Ranyard)  'broad-based  on  jharrons  and  charcoal  and  kerosene 'I 

The  two  were  lifting  up  their  voices  in  unison  over  the  myste- 
rious shortage  of  kerosene  (that  arch  sinner  Mool  Chand  said 
none  was  coming  into  the  coimtry)  when  dinner  was  announced; 
and  Talbot  Hayes  —  inevitably  —  offered  his  arm  to  Miss 
*  Washerman. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  313 

Arden.  Roy,  consigned  to  Dr.  Wemyss,  could  only  pray  Heaven 
for  the  next  best  thing  —  Miss  Arden  on  his  left.  Instead,  amaz- 
edly,  he  found  himself  promoted  to  a  seat  beside  her  mother, 
who  still  further  amazed  him  by  treating  him  to  a  much  larger 
share  of  her  attention  than  the  law  of  the  dinner  table  pre- 
scribed. Her  talk,  in  the  main,  was  local  and  personal;  and 
Roy  simply  let  it  flow;  his  eyes  flagrantly  straying  down  the 
table  towards  Miss  Arden  and  Hayes,  who  seemed  very  intimate 
this  evening. 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  talking  about  Home.  It  began  with 
gardens.  Mrs.  Elton  had  a  passion  for  them,  as  her  mdis^  knew 
to  their  cost;  and  the  other  day  a  friend  had  told  her  that  some- 
body said  Mr.  Sinclair  had  a  lovely  place  at  Home,  with  a 
wonderfid  old  garden  —  ? 

Mr.  Sinclair  admitted  as  much,  with  masculine  brevity. 

Undeterred,  she  drew  out  the  sentimental  stop:  —  the  charm 
of  a  real  old  English  garden!  Out  here,  one  only  used  the  word 
by  courtesy.  Lahorites,  of  course,  were  specially  favoured; 
but  do  what  one  would,  it  was  never  quite  the  same  thing  —  was 
it...? 

Not  quite,  Roy  agreed  amicably  —  and  wondered  what  the 
joke  was  down  there.  He  supposed  Miss  Arden  must  have  had 
some  say  in  the  geography  of  the  table .  .  . 

Her  mother,  meantime,  had  tacked  sail  and  was  probing  him, 
indirectly,  about  his  reasons  for  remaining  in  India.  Was  he 
going  in  for 'politics,  or  the  life  of  coimtry  gentleman  in  his 
beautiful  home?  Her  remarks  implied  that  she  took  him  for  the 
eldest  son.  And  Roy,  who  had  not  been  attending,  realised  with 
a  jar  that,  in  vulgar  parlance,  he  was  being  discreetly  pumped. 
Whereat,  politely,  but  decisively,  he  sheered  off  and  stuck  to  his 
partner  till  the  meal  was  over. 

The  men  seemed  to  linger  interminably  over  their  wine  ind 
cigars.  But  he  managed  to  engage  the  D.C.  on  the  one  subject 
that  put  shyness  to  flight  —  the  problems  of  changing  India. 
With  more  than  twenty  years  of  work  and  observation  behind 
him,  he  saw  the  widenmg  gulf  between  rulers  and  ruled  as  an 
1  Gardeners.  . 


314  FAR  TO  SEEK 

almost  equal  disaster  for  both.  He  knew,  none  better,  all  that 
had  been  achieved  in  his  own  Province  alone,  for  the  peasant 
and  the  loyal  landowner.  He  had  made  many  friends  among  the 
Indians  of  his  district,  and  from  these  he  had  received  repeated 
warnings  of  widespread,  organised  rebellion.  Yet  he  was  help- 
less; tied  hand  and  foot  in  yards  of  red  tape  .  .  . 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Roy  had  enjoyed  a  talk  with  him, 
a  sense  of  doors  opening  on  to  larger  spaces;  but  this  evening 
restlessness  nagged  at  him  like  an  importunate  third  person; 
and  at  the  first  hint  of  a  move  he  was  on  his  feet,  determined  to 
forestall  Hayes. 

He  succeeded;  and  Miss  Arden  welcomed  him  with  the  lift 
of  her  brows  that  he  was  growing  to  watch  for  when  they  met. 
It  seemed  to  imply  a  certain  intimacy. 

"Very  brown  and  vigorous  you're  looking  I  Was  it  —  great 
fun?" 

"It  was  topping,"  he  answered  with  simple  fervour.  "Rare 
sport.  Everything  in  style." 

"And  no  leisure  to  miss  partners  left  lamenting?  I  hope  our 
stars  shone  the  brighter,  glorified  by  distance?" 

Her  eyes  challenged  him  with  smiling  deliberation.  His  own 
met  them  full;  and  a  little  tinghng  shock  ran  through  him,  as 
at  the  touch  of  an  electric  needle. 

"Some  stars  are  dazzling  enough  at  close  quarters,"  he  said 
boldly. 

"But  surely  —  'distance  lends  enchantment'  —  ?" 

"It  depends  a  good  deal  on  the  view!" 

At  that  moment  up  came  Hayes,  with  his  ineffable  air  of  giv- 
ing a  cachet  to  anyone  he  honoured  with  his  favour.  And  Miss 
Arden  hailed  him,  as  if  they  had  not  met  for  a  week.  Thus 
encouraged,  of  course  he  clung  like  a  limpet;  and  reverted  to 
some  subject  they  had  been  discussing  tacitly  isolating  Roy. 

For  a  few  exasperating  moments  he  stood  his  ground,  counting 
on  bridge  to  remove  the  limpet.  But  when  Hayes  refused  a  press- 
ing invitation  to  join  Mrs.  Ranyard's  table,  Roy  gave  it  up,  and 
deliberately  walked  away. 

Only  Mr  Elton  remained  sitting  near  the  fireplace.  His  look 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  315 

of  undisguised  pleasure  at  Roy's  approach  atoned  for  a  good 
deal;  and  they  renewed  their  talk  where  it  had  broken  off.  Roy 
almost  forgot  he  was  talking  to  a  senior  official;  freely  expressed 
his  own  thoughts;  and  even  ventured  to  comment  on  the  strange 
detachment  of  Anglo-Indians,  in  general,  from  a  land  full  of 
such  vast  and  varied  interests,  lying  at  their  very  doors. 

"Perhaps  — I  misjudge  them,"  he  added,  with  the  unfailing 
touch  of  modesty  that  was  not  least  among  his  charms.  "But 
to  me  it  sometimes  seems  as  if  a  curtain  hung  between  their  eyes 
and  India.  And  —  it's  catchmg.  In  some  subtle  way  this  little 
concentrated  world  within  a  world  seems  to  draw  one's  recep- 
tiveness  away  from  it  all.    Is  that  very  sweeping,  sir?  " 

A  smile  dawned  in  Mr.  Elton's  rather  mournful  eyes.  "In 
a  sense  —  it's  painfully  true.  But  —  the  fact  is  —  Anglo-Indian 
life  can't  be  fairly  judged  —  from  the  outside.  It  has  to  be  lived 
before  its  insidiousness  can  be  suspected."  He  moistened  his 
lips  and  caressed  his  chin  with  a  large,  sensitive  hand.  "Happily 

—  there  are  a  good  many  exceptions." 

"If  I  wasn't  talking  to  one  of  them,  sir  —  I  wouldn't  have  ven- 
tured!" said  Roy;  and  the  friendly  smile  deepened. 

"All  the  same,"  Elton  went  on,  "there  are  those  who  assert 
that  it  is  half  the  secret  of  our  success;  that  India  conquered 
the  conquerors  who  lived  with  her  and  so  lost  their  virility.  Yet 
in  our  earlier  days,  when  the  personal  touch  was  a  reality,  we 
did  achieve  a  better  relation  all  round.  Of  course  the  present 
state  of  affairs  Is  the  inevitable  fruit  of  our  whole  system.  By 
the  Anglicising  process  we  have  spread  all  over  India  a  vast  layer 
of  minor  officials  some  six  million  persons  deep  I  Consider,  my 
dear  young  man,  the  significance  of  those  figures.  We  reduce  the 
European  staff.  We  increase  the  drudgery  of  their  office  work 

—  and  we  wonder  why  the  Sahib  and  the  peasant  are  no  longer 
personal  friends  —  I " 

Stirred  by  his  subject,  and  warmed  by  Roy's  intelligent  in- 
terest, the  man's  nervous  tricks  disappeared.  He  spoke  eagerly, 
earnestly,  as  to  an  equal  in  experience;  a  compUment  Roy 
would  have  been  quicker  to  appreciate  had  not  half  his  atten- 
tion been  centred  on  that  exasperating  pair,  who  had  retired 


3i6  .  FAR  TO  SEEK 

to  a  cushioned  alcove  and  looked  like  remaining  there  for 
good. 

What  the  devil  had  the  girl  invited  him  for?  If  she  wished 
to  disillusion  him,  she  was  succeeding  to  admiration.  If  she  fan- 
cied he  was  one  of  her  infernal  ninepins,  she  was  very  much 
mistaken.  And  all  the  while  he  found  himself  growing  steadily 
more  distracted,  more  insistently  conscious  of  her  ... 

Voices  and  laughter  heralded  an  influx  of  bridge-players; 
Mrs.  Ranyard  with  Barnard,  Miss  Garten,  and  Dr.  Wemyss. 
A  table  of  three  women  and  one  man  did  not  suit  the  little  lady's 
taste. 

"We're  a  very  scratch  lot.  And  we  want  fresh  blood!"  she 
announced  camivorously,  as  the  pair  in  the  alcove  rose  and 
came  forward. 

The  two  men  rose  also,  but  went  on  with  their  talk.  They 
knew  it  was  not  their  blood  Mrs.  Ranyard  was  seeking.  Roy  kept 
his  back  turned  and  studiously  refrained  from  hoping .  .  . 

"  If  you  two  have  quite  finished  breaking  up  the  Empire  ...?** 
said  Miss  Arden's  voice  at  his  elbow.  She  had  approached  so 
quietly  that  he  started.  Worse  still,  he  knew  she  had  seen.  "I^ 
was  terrified  of  being  caught"  —  she  turned  affectionately  to 
her  stepfather  —  "so  I  flung  Mr.  Hayes  to  the  wolves  —  and 
fled.  You're  sanctuary!'* 

Her  fingers  caressed  his  sleeve.  Words  and  touch  waked  a 
smile  in  his  mournful  eyes.  They  seemed  to  understand  one  an- 
other, these  two.  To  Roy  she  had  never  seemed  more  charming; 
and  his  own  abrupt  volte-face  was  xmsteadying,  to  say  the  least 
of  it. 

"Hayes  would  prove  a  tough  mouthful  —  even  for  wolves," 
Elton  remarked  pensively. 

"He  would!    He's  so  seciu'ely  lacquered  over  with — well 

—  we  won't  be  unkind.  But  —  strictly  between  ourselves,  dear 

—  wouldn't  you  love  to  swop  him  for  Mr.  Sinclair,  these 
days?" 

"My  dear/"  Elton  reproached  her,  nervously  shifting  his 
large  hands.  "Hayes  is  a  model  —  of  efl&ciency!  But  —  well, 
well  —  if  Mr.  Sinclair  will  forgive  flattery  to  his  face  —  I  should 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  317 

say  he  has  many  fine  qualities  for  an  Indian  career,  should  he 
be  inclined  that  way  —  " 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I'd  no  notion—"  Roy  murmured,  over- 
whehned;  as  Elton  — seeing  Miss  Garten  stranded  —  moved 
dutifully  to  her  rescue. 

Miss  Arden  glanced  again  at  Roy.  "Are  you  inclining  that 
way?" 

The  question  took  him  aback. 

"Me?  —  No.  Of  course  I'd  love  it  —  for  some  things." 

"You're  well  out  of  it,  in  my  opinion.  It'll  soon  be  no  country 
for  a  white  man.  He's  already  little  more  than  a  futile  super- 
fluity — ' 

"  On  the  contrary  —  "  Roy  struck  in,  warmly  —  "  the  English- 
man, of  the  Tightest  sort,  is  more  than  ever  needed  in  India  to- 
day." 

Her  slight  shrug  conceded  the  point.  "I  never  argue  I  And  if 
you  start  on  that  subject  —  I'm  nowhere  I  You  can  save  it  all  up 
for  the  Pater.  He's  rather  a  dear  —  don't  you  think  —  ?" 

"He's  splendid." 

Her  smile  had  its  caressmg  quality.  "That's  the  last  adjec- 
tive anyone  else  would  apply  to  him!  But  it's  true.  There's  a 
fine  streak  in  him  —  very  carefully  hidden  away.  People  don't 
see  it,  because  he's  shy  and  clumsy  and  hasn't  an  oxmce  of  push. 
But  he  understands  the  natives.  Loves  them.  Goodness  knows 
why.  And  he's  got  the  right  touch.  I  could  tell  you  a  tale  —  " 

"Do!"  he  urged.  "Tales  are  my  pet  weakness." 
,     She  subsided  into  the  empty  chau-  and  looked  up  invitingly. 
**Sit,"  she  commanded  —  and  he  obeyed. 

He  was  neither  saying  nor  doing  tiie  things  he  had  meant  to 
say  or  do.  But  the  mere  beauty  of  her  enthralled  him;  the  allur- 
ing grace  of  her  pose,  leaning  forward  a  Httle,  bare  arms  resting 
on  her  knees.  No  vivid  colour  anywhere  except  her  hps.  Those 
lips,  thought  Roy,  were  responsible  for  a  good  deal.  Their  flex- 
ible softness  discounted  more  than  a  little  the  deliberation  of  her 
eyes;  and  to-night  her  charming  attitude  to  Elton  appreciably 
quickened  his  interest  in  her  and  her  tale. 

'  "It  happened  out  in  the  district.  I  heard  it  from  a  friend." 


3i8  FAR  TO  SEEK 

She  leaned  nearer  and  spoke  in  a  confidential  undertone.  "He 
got  news  that  some  neighbouring  town  was  in  a  ferment.  Only  a 
handful  of  Europeans  there;  an  American  mission;  and  no 
troops.  So  the  'mish'  people  begged  him  to  come  in  and  politely 
wave  his  official  wand.  You  must  be  very  polite  to  badmashes^ 
these  days,  if  you're  a  mere  Sahib;  or  you  hear  of  it  from  some 
little  Tin  God  sitting  safe  in  his  office  hundreds  of  miles  away. 
Well,  off  he  went  —  a  twenty-mile  drive;  found  the  mission  in  a 
flutter  —  I  don't  blame  them  —  armed  with  rifles  and  revolvers; 
expecting-every-moment-to-be-their-next  sort  of  thing;  and  the 
city  in  an  uproar.  Some  religious  tamasha.  He  talked  like  a 
father  to  the  headmen;  and  assured  the  *mish'  people  it  would 
be  all  right. 

"They  begged  him  to  stay  and  see  them  through.  So  he  said 
he  would  sleep  at  the  dak  bungalow.  *AU  alone?'  they  asked. 
*No  one  to  guard  you?'  'Quite  unnecessary,'  he  said  —  and 
they  were  simply  amazed! 

"It  was  rather  hot;  so  he  had  his  bed  put  in  the  garden. 
Then  he  sent  for  the  leading  men  and  said.  'I  hear  there's  a 
disturbance  going  on.  I  don't  intimate  you  have  anything  to 
do  with  it.  But  you  are  responsible;  and  I  expect  you  to  keep 
the  people  in  hand.  I'm  sleeping  here  to-night.  If  there  is  further 
trouble,  you  can  report  to  me.  But  it  is  for  you  to  keep  order  in 
your  own  town.' 

"They  salaamed  and  departed.  No  one  came  near  him.  And 
he  drove  off  next  morning  leaving  those  Americans,  with  their 
rifles  and  revolvers,  more  amazed  than  ever!  I  was  told  it  made  a 
great  impression  on  the  natives,  his  sleeping  alone  in  the  garden, 
without  so  much  as  a  sentry.  —  And  the  cream  of  it  is,"  she  added 
—  her  eyes  on  Elton's  unheroic  figure  —  "  the  man  who  could  do 
that  is  terrified  of  walking  across  a  ballroom  or  saying  polite 
things  to  a  woman!" 

Distinctly,  to-night,  she  was  in  a  new  vein,  more  attractive 
to  Roy  than  all  her  feminine  crafts  and  lures.  Sitting,  friendly 
an  at  ease,  over  the  fire,  they  discussed  human  idiosyncrasies  — 
a  pel  subject  with  him. 

^  Bad  characters. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  319 

Then,  suddenly,  she  looked  hun  in  the  eyes — and  he  was  aware 
of  her  again,  in  the  old  disturbing  way.  Yet  she  was  merely 
remarking,  with  a  small  sigh,  "You  can't  think  how  refreshing 
it  is  to  get  a  Uttle  real  talk  sometimes  with  a  cultivated  man  who 
is  neither  a  soldier  nor  a  civilian.  Even  in  a  big  station  we're  so 
boxed  in  with  'shop'  and  personaUties!  The  men  are  luckier. 
They  can  escape  now  and  then;  shake  off  the  women  as  one 
shakes  off  burrs  —  ! " 

Another  glance  here;  half  sceptical,  wholly  captivating. 

**  It's  easier  said  than  done,"  admitted  Roy,  recalling  his  own 
partial  failure.  ] 

"  Charming  of  you  to  confess  it !  Dare  I  confess  that  I've  found 
the  Hall  and  the  tennis  rather  flat  these  few  days  —  without  im- 
perilling your  phenomenal  modesty?" 

"I  think  you  dare."  It  was  he  who  looked  full  at  her  now. 
"  My  modesty  badly  needs  bucking  up  —  this  evening." 

Her  feigned  surprise  was  delicately  done.  ''What  a  shame  I 
Who's  been  snubbing  you?  Our  clever  M.B.?" 

"Not  at  all.  You've  got  the  initials  wrong." 

"Did  it  hurt  your  feeUngs  —  as  much  as  all  that?"  She 
dropped  the  flimsy  pretence  and  her  eyes  proffered  apology. 

"Well,  you  invited  me." 

"And  Mother  invited  Mr.  Hayesl  The  fact  is  — he's  been 
rather  in  evidence  these  few  days.  And  one  can't  flick  him  off 
like  an  ordinary  mortal.  He's  a  *coming  man'!"  She  folded 
hands  and  lips  and  looked  deliciously  demure.  "All  the  same  — 
it  was  unkind.  You  were  so  unhappy  at  dinner.  I  could  feel  it 
all  that  way  off.  Be  magnanimous  and  come  for  a  ride  to- 
morrow —  do." 

And  Roy,  the  detached,  the  disillusioned,  accepted  with  alac- 
rity. 


Chapter  IV 

For  every  power,  a  man  pays  toll  in  a  corresponding  weakness; 
and  probably  the  artist  pays  heaviest  of  all. 

M.  P.  WnxcocKS 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  great  Gymkhana,  to  be  followed  by 
the  Bachelors'  Ball.  For  Lahore's  unfaiHng  social  energy  was 
not  yet  spent;  though  Depot  troops  had  gone  to  the  Hills,  and 
the  leave  season  was  open,  releasing  a  fortunate  few,  and  leaving 
the  rest  to  fretful  or  stoical  endurance  of  the  stealthy,  stoking- 
up  process  of  a  Punjab  hot-weather.  And  the  true  inwardness 
of  those  three  words  must  be  burned  into  body  and  brain, 
season  after  season,  to  be  even  remotely  understood.  Already 
earth  and  air  were  full  of  whispered  warnings.  Roses  and  sweet 
peas  were  fading.  Social  life  was  virtually  suspended  between 
twelve  and  two,  the  'calUng  hours'  of  the  cold  weather;  and  at 
sunset  the  tree-crickets  shrilled  louder  than  ever  —  careless 
heralds  of  doom.  Hiunan  tempers  were  shorter;  and  even  the 
night  did  not  now  bring  unfailing  relief. 

Roy  had  been  sleeping  badly  again;  partly  the  heat,  partly 
the  clash  of  sensations  within  him.  This  morning,  after  hours  of 
tossing  and  dozing  and  dreaming  —  not  the  right  kind  of  dreams 
at  all  —  he  was  up  and  out  before  sunrise,  forsaking  the  bed 
that  betrayed  him  for  the  saddle  that  never  failed  to  bring  a 
measure  of  respite  from  the  fever  of  body  and  mind  that  was 
stultifying,  insidiously,  his  reason  and  his  will. 

Still  immersed  in  his  novel,  he  had  come  up  to  Lahore  heart- 
free,  purpose-free;  vaguely  aware  that  virtue  had  gone  out  of 
him;  looking  forward  to  a  few  weeks  of  careless  enjoyment,  be- 
tween spells  of  work;  and  above  all  to  the  'high  old  time'  he 
and  Lance  would  have  together  beyond  Kashmir.  Women  and 
marriage  were  simply  not  in  the  picture.  His  attitude  to  that 
inevitable  event  was,  on  his  own  confession,  not  yet.'  Possibly, 
when  he  got  Home,  he  might  discover  it  was  Tara,  after  all.  It 
would  need  some  courage  to  propose  again.  For  the  memory 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  321 

of  that  JuvenUe  fiasco  still  pricked  his  sensitive  pride.  A  touch 
of  the  Rajput  came  out  there.  Letters  from  Serbia  seemed  to 
dawdle  unconscionably  by  the  way.  But,  in  leisurely  coiu-se, 
he  had  received  an  answer  to  his  screed  about  Dyan  and  the 
quest;  a  letter  alive  with  all  he  loved  best  in  her  —  enthusiasm, 
humoiu:,  vivid  s)mipathy,  deepened  and  enlarged  by  experiences 
that  could  not  yet  be  told.  But  Tara  was  far  and  Miss  Arden 
was  near;  and,  in  the  mysterious  workings  of  sex  magnetism, 
mere  propinquity  too  often  prevails. 

And  all  the  others  seemed  farther  still.  They  wrote  regularly, 
affectionately.  Yet  their  letters  —  especially  his  father's  — 
seemed  to  tell  precious  little  of  the  things  he  really  wanted  to 
know.  Perhaps  his  own  had  been  more  reserved  than  he  realised. 
There  had  been  so  much  at  Jaipur  and  Delhi  that  he  could  not 
very  well  enlarge  upon.  No  use  worrying  the  dear  old  man;  and 
she  who  had  Hnked  them,  unfailingly,  was  now  seldom  men- 
tioned between  them.  So  there  grew  up  in  Roy  a  disconsolate 
feeling  that  none  of  them  cared  very  much  whether  he  came 
Home  or  not.  Jerry  —  after  three  years  in  a  German  prison  — 
was  a  nervous  wreck;  still  undergoing  treatment;  hmnanly  lost, 
for  the  time  being.  Tiny  was  absorbed  in  her  husband  and  an 
even  Tinier  baby,  called  Nevil  Le  Roy,  after  himself.  Tara  was 
not  yet  home;  but  coming  before  long,  because  of  Aimt  Helen 
who  had  broken  down  between  war  work  and  the  shock  of 
Atholl's  death. 

A  queer  thing,  separation,  mused  Roy,  as  Surdj  slowed  down 
to  a  walk  and  the  glare  of  morning  flamed  along  the  sky.  There 
were  they  —  and  here  was  he:  close  relations,  in  effect;  almost 
strangers  in  fact.  There  was  more  between  him  and  them  than 
several  hundred  miles  of  sea.  There  was  the  bottomless  gulf  of 
the  War;  the  gulf  of  his  bitter  grief  and  the  slow  climb  up  from 
the  depths  to  Pisgah  heights  of  revelation.  Impossible  to  com- 
municate —  even  had  he  willed  —  those  inner  vital  experiences 
at  Chitor  and  Jaipur.  And  he  had  certainly  neither  will  nor  power 
to  enlarge  on  his  present  turmoil  of  heart  and  mind. 

Smce  his  ride  with  Rose  Arden,  after  the  dinner  party,  things 
seemed  to  have  taken  a  new  turn.  Their  relation  was  no  longer 


322  ■  FAR  TO  SEEK 

tentative.  She  seemed  tacitly  to  regard  him  as  her  chosen 

cavalier;  and  he,  as  tacitly,  fell  in  with  the  arrangement.  No 
denying  he  felt  flattered  a  little;  subjugated  increasingly  by  a 
spell  he  could  neither  analyse  nor  resist,  because  he  had  known 
nothing  quite  like  it  before.  He  was,  in  truth,  paying  the  pen- 
alty for  those  rare  and  beautiful  years  of  early  manhood  inspired 
by  worship  of  his  mother.  For  every  virtue,  every  gift,  the  gods 
exact  a  price.  And  he  was  paying  it  now.  Deep  down  within  him 
something  tugged  against  that  potent  spell.  Yet  increasingly  it 
prevailed  and  lured  him  from  his  work.  The  vivid  beings  of  his 
brain  were  fading  into  bloodless  unrealities;  in  which  state  he 
could  do  nothing  with  them.  Yet  Broome's  encouragement  and 
his  father's  critical  appreciation  of  fragments  lately  sent  Home, 
had  fired  him  to  fulfil  —  more  than  fulfil  —  their  expectations. 
And  now  —  here  he  was  tripped  up  again  by  his  all-too-human 
capacity  for  emotion  —  as  at  Jaipur. 

The  comparison  jerked  him.  The  two  experiences,  like  the 
two  women,  had  almost  nothing  in  common.  The  charm  of 
Aruna  —  with  its  Eastern  mingling  of  the  sensuous  and  spiritual 
—  was  a  charm  he  intimately  understood.  It  combined  a  touch 
of  the  earth  with  a  rarefied  touch  of  the  stars.  In  Rose  Arden,  so 
far,  he  had  discovered  no  touch  of  the  stars.  She  suggested, 
rather,  a  day  of  early  summer;  a  day  when  warmth  and 
fragrance  and  colour  permeate  soul  and  body;  keeping  them 
spellbound  by  the  beauty  of  earth;  wooing  the  brain  from 
irksome  queries  —  why,  whence,  whither? 

By  now,  the  sheer  fascination  of  her  had  entered  in  and  satu- 
rated his  being  to  a  degree  that  he  vaguely  resented.  Always 
one  face,  one  voice,  intruding  on  him  unsought. -No  respite 
from  thought  of  her,  from  desire  of  her;  the  exquisite,  intolerable 
ache,  at  times,  when  she  was  present  with  him;  the  still  more 
intolerable  ache  when  she  was  not.  The  fluidity  of  his  own  dual 
nature,  and  recoil  from  the  Aruna  temptation,  inclined  him 
peculiarly  to  idealise  the  clear-eyed,  self -poised  Western  qualities 
so  diversely  personified  in  Lance  and  this  compelling  girl. 

Yet  emphatically  he  did  not  love  her.  He  knew  the  great 
reality  too  well  to  delude  himself  on  that  score.  Were  these  the 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  323 

authentic  signs  of  falling  in  love?  If  so  —  in  spite  of  raptur- 
ous moments  —  it  was  a  confoundedly  uncomfortable  state  of 
being  ,  .  . 

Where  was  she  leading  him?  —  this  beautiful  distracting  girl, 
who  said  so  Uttle,  yet  whose  smiles  and  silences  implied  so  much. 
There  was  no  forwardness  or  free-and-casiness  about  her;  yet 
/  instinctively  he  recognized  her  as  the  active  agent  in  the  whole 
j  affair.  Twice,  lately,  he  had  resolved  not  to  go  near  her  again; 
and  both  times  he  had  failed  ignominiouslv  —  he  who  prided 
himself  on  control  of  unruly  emotions  .  .  . ! 

Had  Lance,  he  wondered,  made  the  same  resolve  and  managed 
to  keep  it  —  being  Lance?  Or  was  the  Gymkhana  momentarily 
the  stronger  magnet  of  the  two?  He  and  Paul,  with  a  Major  in 
the  Monmouths,  were  chief  organisers;  and  much  practice  was 
afoot  at  tent-pegging,  bareback  horsemanship,  and  the  like. 
For  a  week  Lance  had  scarcely  been  into  Lahore.  When  Roy 
pressed  him,  he  said  it  was  getting  too  hot  for  afternoon  dancing. 
But  as  he  still  affected  far  more  violent  forms  of  exercise,  that 
excuse  was  not  particularly  convincing.  By  way  of  retort,  he 
had  rallied  Roy  on  overdoing  the  tame-cat  touch  and  neglectmg 
the  all-important  novel:  and  Roy  —  wincing  at  the  truth  of 
that  friendly  flick  — had  replied  no  less  truthfully:  "Well,  if 
it  hangs  fire,  old  chap,  you're  the  smner.  You  dug  me  out  of 
Paradise  by  twitting  me  with  becoming  an  appendage  to  a 
pencil!  Another  month  at  Udaipur  would  have  nearly  pulled 
me  through  it  —  in  the  rough,  at  least." 

It  was  hghtly  spoken;  but  Lance  had  set  his  lips  in  a  fashion 
Roy  knew  well;  and  said  no  more. 

Altogether,  he  seemed  to  have  retired  into  a  shell  out  of  which 
he  refused  to  be  drawn.  They  were  friendly  as  ever,  but  distmctly 
less  intimate;  and  Roy  felt  vaguely  responsible,  yet  powerless 
to  put  things  straight.  For  mtimacy  —  in  its  essence;  a  mutual 
impulse  —  cannot  be  mduced  to  order.  If  one  spoke  of  Miss 
Arden,  or  doings  in  Lahore,  Lance  would  respond  without  en- 
thusiasm, and  unobtrusively  change  the  subject.  Roy  could 
only  infer  that  his  interest  in  the  girl  had  never  gone  very  deep 
and  had  now  fizzled  out  altogether.  But  he  would  have  given 


324  FAR  TO  SEEK 

a  good  deal  to  feel  sure  that  the  fizzling  out  had  no  connection 
with  his  own  appearance  on  the  scene.  It  bothered  him  to  re- 
member that,  at  first,  in  an  odd,  repressed  fashion,  Lance  had 
seemed  unmistakeably  keen.  But  if  he  would  persist  in  playing 
the  Trappist  monk,  what  the  devil  was  a  fellow  to  do? 

Even  over  the  Gymkhana  programme  there  had  been  an  un- 
dercurrent of  friction.  Lance  —  in  his  new  vein  —  had  wanted 
to  keep  the  women  out  of  it;  while  Roy  —  in  his  new  vein  — 
couldn't  keep  at  least  one  of  them  out,  if  he  tried.  In  particular 
both  were  keen  about  the  Cockade  Tournament:  a  glorified 
version  of  fencing  on  horseback;  the  wire  masks  adorned  with 
a  small  coloured  feather  for  plume.  He  was  victor  whose  fencing- 
stick  detached  his  opponent's  feather.  The  prize  —  a  Bachelor's 
Purse  —  had  been  well  subscribed  for  and  supplemented  by 
Gymkhana  funds.  So,  on  all  accoimts,  it  was  a  popular  event. 
There  were  twenty-two  names  down;  and  Roy,  in  a  romantic 
impulse,  had  proposed  making  a  real  joust  of  it;  each  knight 
to  wear  a  lady's  favour;  a  Queen  of  Beauty  and  Love  to  be 
chosen  for  the  prize-giving,  as  in  the  days  of  chivalry. 

Lance  had  rather  hotly  objected;  and  a  few  inveterate  bache- 
lors had  backed  him  up.  But  the  bulk  of  men  are  sentimental 
at  heart;  none  more  than  the  soldier.  So  Roy's  idea  had  caught 
on,  and  the  matter  was  settled.  There  was  little  doubt  who 
would  be  chosen  for  prize-giver;  and  scarcely  less  doubt  whose 
favour  Roy  would  wear. 

Desmond's  flash  of  annoyance  had  been  brief;  but  he  had  stip- 
ulated that  favours  should  not  be  compulsory.  If  they  were,  he 
for  one  would '  scratch.'  This  time  he  had  a  larger  backing;  and, 
amid  a  good  deal  of  chaff  and  laughter,  had  carried  his  point. 

That  open  clash  between  them  —  slight  though  it  was  — 
had  jarred  Roy  a  good  deal.  Lance,  characterisricalJy,  had  ig- 
nored the  whole  thing.  But  not  even  that  inner  jar  could  blimt 
Roy's  keen  anticipation  of  the  whole  affair. 

Miss  Arden  was  his  partner  in  one  of  the  few  mixed  events. 
He  was  to  wear  her  favour  for  the  Tournament  —  a  Marechal 
Niel  rose;  and,  infatuated  as  he  was,  he  saw  it  for  a  guarantee 
of  victory. ... 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  325 

In  view  of  that  intoxicating  possibility,  nothing  else  mattered 
inordinately,  at  the  moment:  though  there  reposed  in  his 
pocket  a  letter  from  Dyan  —  with  a  Delhi  postmark  —  giving 
a  detailed  account  of  serious  trouble  caused  by  the  recent 
hartal:^  all  shops  closed;  tramcars  and  gharris  held  up  by 
threatening  crowds;  helpless  passengers  forced  to  proceed  on 
foot  in  the  blazing  heat  and  dust;  troops  and  police  violently 
assaulted;  till  a  few  rounds  of  buckshot  cooled  the  ardour  of 
ignorant  masses,  doubtless  worked  up  to  concert  pitch  by  wander- 
ing agitators  of  the  Chandranath  persuasion. 

"There  were  certain  Swamis,"  he  concluded,  "trjdng  to  keep 
things  peaceful.  But  they  ought  to  know  resistance  cannot  be 
passive  or  peaceful;  and  excitement  without  understanding  is  a 
fire  difficult  to  quench.  I  beUeve  this  explosion  was  premature; 
but  there  is  lots  more  gumpowder  lying  about,  only  waiting  for 
the  match.  I  am  taking  Aruna  into  the  Hills  for  a  pilgrimage. 
It  is  possible  Grandfather  may  come  too;  we  are  hoping  to  start 
soon  after  the  fifteenth,  if  things  keep  quiet.  Write  to  me,  Roy, 
telling  all  you  know.  Lahore  is  a  hot-bed  for  trouble;  Amritsar, 
worse;  but  I  hope  your  authorities  are  keeping  well  on  their 
guard." 

From  all  Roy  heard,  there  seemed  good  reason  to  believe  they 
were  —  in  so  far  as  a  Home  policy  of  government  by  concession 
would  permit.  But  well  he  knew  that  —  in  the  East  —  if  the 
ruling  power  discards  action  for  argimient,  and  uses  the  sceptre 
for  a  walking-stick,  things  happen  to  men  and  women  and  chil- 
dren on  the  spot.  He  also  knew  that,  to  England's  great  good 
fortune,  there  were  usually  men  on  the  spot  who  could  be  relied 
on,  m  an  emergency,  to  think  and  act  and  dare  in  accordance 
with  the  high  tradition  of  their  race. 

He  hoped  devoutly  it  might  not  come  to  that;  but  at  the  core 
of  hope  lurked  a  flicker  of  fear ... 

*■  Abstention  as  sign  of  mourning. 


Chapter  V 
Her  best  is  bettered  with  a  more  delight. 


Shakspere 


The  great  Gymkhana  was  almost  over.  The  last  event  —  bare- 
back feats  of  horsemanship  —  had  been  an  exciting  affair;  a 
close  contest  between  Lance  and  Roy  and  an  Indian  cavalry 
officer.  But  it  was  Roy  who  had  carried  the  day,  by  his  daring 
and  dexterity  in  the  test  of  swooping  down  and  snatching  a 
handkerchief  from  the  ground  at  full  gallop.  The  ovation  he 
received  went  to  his  head  like  champagne.  But  praise  from 
Lance  went  to  his  heart;  for  Lance,  like  himself,  had  been 
'dead  keen'  on  this  particular  event.  He  had  carried  off  a  tent- 
pegging  cup,  however;  and  appropriately  won  the  V.C.  race. 
So  Roy  considered  he  had  a  right  to  his  triimiph;  especially  as 
the  handkerchief  in  question  had  been  proffered  by  Miss  Arden. 
It  was  reposing  in  his  breast-pocket  now;  and  he  had  a  good 
mind  not  to  part  with  it.  He  was  feeling  in  the  mood  to  dare, 
simply  for  the  excitement  of  the  thing.  He  and  she  had  won 
the  Gretna  Green  race  —  hands  down.  He  further  intended  — 
for  her  honour  and  his  own  glory  —  to  come  off  victor  in  the 
Cockade  Tournament,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  fencing  on  horse- 
back was  one  of  Lance's  specialties.  He  himself  had  taught  Roy 
in  Mesopotamia,  during  those  barren,  plague-ridden  stretches 
of  time  when  the  War  seemed  hung  up  indefinitely  and  it  took 
every  ounce  of  surplus  optimism  to  keep  going  at  all.  Roy's 
hope  was  that  some  other  man  might  knock  Lance  out;  or  —  as 
teams  would  be  decided  by  lot  —  that  luck  might  cast  them  to- 
gether. For  the  ache  of  compunction  was  rather  pronounced  this 
afternoon;  perhaps  because  the  good  fellow's  aloofness  from  the 
grand  shamianah  ^  was  also  rather  pronounced,  considering .  .  . 
He  seemed  always  to  be  either  out  in  the  open,  directing  events, 
or  very  much  engaged  in  the  refreshment  tent  —  an  earthly 
*  Marquee  tent. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  327 

Paradise,  on  this  blazing  day  of  early  April,  to  scores  of  dusty, 
thirsty,  indefatigable  men. 

Between  events,  as  now,  the  place  was  thronged.  Every 
moment  fresh  arrivals  shouting  for  'drinks.'  Every  moment 
the  swish  of  a  syphon,  the  popping  of  corks;  ginger  beer  and 
lemonade  for  Indian  officers,  seated  just  outside,  and  permitted 
by  caste  rules  to  refresh  themselves,  'English-fashion,'  provided 
they  drank  from  the  pure  source  of  the  bottle.  Not  a  Sikh  or 
Rajput  of  them  all  would  have  sulUed  his  caste  purity  by  drink- 
ing from  the  ttunbler  used  by  some  admired  Sahib,  for  whom  on 
service  he  would  cheerfully  lay  down  his  life.  Within  the  tent 
were  a  few  —  very  few  —  more  advanced  beings  who  had  dis- 
carded all  irksome  restrictions  and  would  sooner  be  shot  than 
address  a  white  man  as  'Sahib.'  Such  is  India  in  transition;  a 
welter  of  incongruities,  of  shifting,  perilous  imcertainties,  of 
subterranean  ferment  beneath  a  surface  that  still  appeared  very 
much  as  it  has  always  been. 

Roy  —  observant  and  interested  as  usual  —  saw,  in  the  bril- 
liant gathering,  all  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  security, 
stability,  power.  Let  those  signs  be  shaken  never  so  little,  thought 
he  —  and  the  heavens  would  fall.  But  in  spite  of  grave  news 
from  Delhi  —  that  might  prove  a  prelude  to  eruption  —  not 
a  ripple  stirred  on  the  face  of  the  waters.  The  grand  shamianah 
was  thronged  with  lively  groups  of  women  and  men  in  the 
lightest  of  light  atrire.  A  British  band  was  enlivening  the  inter- 
lude with  musical  comedy  airs.  Stewards  were  striding  about 
looking  important,  issuing  orders  for  the  next  event.  And 
around  them  all  —  as  close  as  boundary  flags  and  police  would 
allow  —  thronged  the  solid  mass  of  onlookers:  soldiers,  sepo)r3, 
and  sowars  from  every  regiment  in  Cantonments;  minor  officials 
with  their  families;  ponies  and  saises  and  dogs  without  number; 
all  wedged  in  by  a  sea  of  brown  faces  and  bobbing  turbans, 
thousands  of  them  twenty  or  thirty  deep. 

Roy's  eyes,  travelling  from  that  vast  outer  ring  to  the  crowded 
tent,  suddenly  saw  the  whole  scene  as  typical  of  Anglo-Indian 
life:  the  little  concentrated  world  of  British  men  and  women, 
pursuing  their  own  ends;  magnificently  unmindful  of  alien  eyes 


328  FAR  TO  SEEK 

watching,  speculating,  misunderstanding  at  every  turn;  the 
whole  heterogeneous  mass  drawn  and  held  together  by  the  uni- 
versal love  of  hazard  and  sport,  the  spirit  of  competition  without 
strife  that  is  the  corner-stone  of  British  character  and  the  Brit- 
ish Empire. 

He  had  just  been  talking  to  a  C.I.D.^  man,  who  had  things 
to  say  about  subterranean  rumblings  that  might  have  startled 
those  laughing,  chaffing  groups  of  men  and  women.  Too  vividly 
his  imagination  pictured  those  scenes  at  Delhi,  while  his  eyes 
scanned  the  formidable  depths  of  alien  humanity  hemming  them 
in,  outnumbering  them  by  thousands  to  one.  What  if  all  those 
friendly  faces  became  suddenly  hostile  —  if  the  laughter  and 
high-pitched  talk  changed  to  the  roar  of  an  angry  crowd  . .  .  ? 

He  shook  off  the  nightmare  feeling;  rating  himself  for  a  cow- 
ard. Yet  he  knew  it  was  not  fantastica;  not  even  improbable; 
though  most  of  the  people  around  him,  till  they  saw  with  their 
own  eyes,  and  heard  with  their  own  ears,  would  not  believe  .  .  . 

But  thoughts  so  unsettUng  were  out  of  place  in  the  midst  of 
a  Gymkhana  with  the  grand  climax  imminent.  So  —  having 
washed  the  dust  out  of  his  throat  —  he  sauntered  across  to  the 
other  tent  to  snatch  a  few  words  with  Miss  Arden  and  secure  his 
rose.  It  had  been  given  to  one  of  the  'kits,'  who  would  put  it  in 
water  and  produce  it  on  demand.  For  the  affair  of  the  favours 
was  to  be  a  private  affair.  Miss  Arden,  however,  in  choosing  a 
Mar6chal  Niel,  tacitly  avowed  him  her  knight.  Lance  would 
know.  All  their  set  would  know.  He  supposed  she  realised  that. 
She  was  not  an  accidental  kind  of  person.  And  she  had  a  natural 
gift  for  flattery  of  the  delicate,  indirect  order. 

No  easy  matter  to  get  near  her  again,  once  you  left  her  side. 
As  usual  she  was  surrounded  by  men;  easily  the  Queen  of  Beauty 
and  of  Love.  In  honour  of  that  high  compliment,  she  wore  her 
loveliest  race  gown;  soft  shades  of  blue  and  green  skilfully 
blended;  and  a  close-fitting  hat  bewitchingly  framed  her  face. 
Nearing  the  tent,  Roy  felt  a  sudden  twinge  of  apprehension. 
Where  were  they  drifting  to  —  he  and  she?  Was  he  prepared  to 
bid  her  good-bye,  in  a  week  or  ten  days,  and  possibly  not  set 
*  Criminal  Investigation  Department. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  529 

eyes  on  her  again?  Would  she  let  him  go,  without  a  pang,  and 
start  afresh  with  some  chance-met  fellow  in  Sunla?  The  idea 
was  detestable;  and  yet ,  .  ,  ? 

Half  irritably  he  dismissed  the  mtrusive  thought.  The  glam- 
our of  her  so  dazzled  him  that  he  could  see  nothing  else  clearly . .  . 

Perhaps  that  was  why  he  failed  to  escape  Mrs.  Hunter-Ran- 
yard,  who  skilfully  annexed  him  m  passing  and  rained  compli- 
ments on  his  embarrassed  head.  Fine  horsemanship  was  com- 
mon enough  in  India,  but  anything  more  superb  —  !  Wide  blue 
eves  and  extravagant  gesture  expressively  filled  the  blank. 

"My  heart  was  in  my  mouth!  That  handkerchief  trick  is  so 
thrilling.  You  all  looked  as  if  you  miist  have  your  brains  knocked 
out  the  next  moment  —  " 

"And  if  we  had,  I  suppose  the  thrill  would  have  gone  one 
better!"  Roy  wickedly  suggested.  He  was  annoyed  at  being 
delayed. 

■*You  deserve  'yes'  to  that!  But  if  I  said  wha.t  T  really 
thought,  your  head  would  be  turned.  And  it's  quite  sufficiently 
turned  already!"  She  beamed  on  him  with  arch  significance; 
enjoying  his  impatience,  without  a  tinge  of  malice.  There  was 
little  of  it  in  her;  and  the  little  there  was,  she  reserved  for  her 
own  sex. 

"I  suppose  it's  a  dead  secret.  .  .whose  favour  you  are 
going  to  wear?  " 

"That's  the  ruling,"  said  Roy,  but  he  felt  his  blood  tingling 
and  hoped  to  goodness  it  didn't  show  through. 

"Well,  I've  got  big  bets  on  about  guessing  right;  and  the  big- 
gest bet's  on  yoiu-s!  Major  Desmond's  a  good  second." 

"Oh,  he  bars  the  whole  idea." 

"I'm  reUeved  to  hear  it.  I  was  angelic  enough  to  offer  him 
mine  —  thinking  he  might  be  feeling  out  in  the  cold!"  (another 
arch  look)  "and  — he  refused.  My  'Happy  Warrior '.doesn't 
seem  quite  so  happy  as  he  used  to  be  —  " 

The  light  thrust  struck  home,  but  Roy  ignored  it.  If  Lance 
barred  wearing  favours,  he  barred  discussing  Lance  with  women. 
Driven  mto  a  comer,  he  managed  —  somehow  —  to  escape,  and 
hurried  away  in  sea,rch  of  his  rose. 


330  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Mrs.  Ranyard,  looking  after  him,  with  frankly  aflfectionate 
concern,  found  herself  wondering  —  was  he  really  quite  so  trans- 
parent as  he  seemed?  That  queer,  visionary  look  in  his  eyes,  now 
and  then,  suggested  spiritual  depths,  or  heights,  that  might 
baffle  even  the  all-appropriating  Rose.  Did  she  seriously  intend 
to  appropriate  him?  There  were  vague  rvunours  of  a  title.  But 
no  one  knew  anything  about  him,  really,  except  the  two  Des- 
monds; and  she  would  be  a  brave  woman  who  tried  to  squeeze 
family  details  out  of  them.  The  boy  was  too  good  for  her;  but 
still .  .  . 

Roy,  reappearing,  felt  idiotically  convinced  that  every  eye 
was  on  the  little  spot  of  yellow  in  his  buttonhole  that  Jnked  hira 
publicly  with  the  girl  who  wore  a  cluster  of  its  fellows  at  her  belt. 

Time  was  nearly  up.  She  had  moved  to  the  front  now  and 
was  free  of  men;  standing  very  still,  gazing  intently  .  .  . 

Roy^  following  her  gaze,  saw  Lance  —  actually  in  the  tent  — 
discussing  some  detail  with  the  Colonel. 

"What  makes  her  look  at  him  like  that?"  he  wondered: 
and  it  was  as  if  the  tip  of  a  red-hot  needle  touched  his  heart. 

Next  moment  she  saw  him,  and  beckoned  him  with  her  eyes. 
He  came  —  instinctively  obedient;  and  her  welcoming  glance 
included  the  rosebud.  "  You  found  it?  "  she  said,  very  low,  mind- 
ful of  feminine  ears.  'And  —  you  deserve  it,  after  that  marvel- 
lous exhibition.  You  went  such  a  pace.  It  —  frightened  me." 

It  frightened  him,  a  little,  the  exceeding  softness  of  her  look 
and  tone;  and  she  added,  more  softly  still:  "My  handkerchief, 
please." 

*'My  handkerchief!"  he  retorted.  "I  won  it  fairly.  You've 
admitted  as  much." 

"But  it  wasn't  meant  —  for  a  prize." 

**I  risked  something  to  win  it,  anyway,"  said  he,  "and  now  — " 

The  blare  of  the  megaphone  —  a  poor  substitute  for  heralds* 
trumpets  —  called  the  knights  of  the  wire  mask  and  fencing- 
stick  into  the  lists. 

"Go  in  and  win  the  rosebud  too!"  said  she,  when  the  shout- 
ing ceased.  "Keep  cool.  Don't  lose  your  head  —  or  your 
feather!" 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  331 

He  had  lost  his  head  aheady.  She  had  seen  to  that.  And 
turning  to  leave  her,  he  found  Lance  almost  at  his  elbow. 

"  Come  along,  Roy,"  he  said,  an  imperative  note  in  his  voice; 
and  if  his  glance  included  the  rosebud,  it  gave  no  sign. 

As  they  neared  the  gathering  group  of  combatants,  he  turned 
with  one  of  his  quick  looks. 

"You're  in  luck,  old  man.  Every  inducement  to  come  out 
top ! "  he  remarked,  only  half  in  joke.  "I've  none,  except  my  own 
credit.  But  you'll  have  a  tough  job  if  you  knock  up  agamst 
me. 

"Right  you  are,"  Roy  answered,  jarred  by  the  look  and  tone 
more  than  the  words.  "If  you're  so  dead  keen,  I'll  take  you  on." 

After  that,  Roy  hoped  exceedingly  that  the  luck  might  cast 
them  in  the  same  team. 

But  it  fell  out  otherwise.  Lance  drew  red;  Roy,  blue.  Lance 
and  Major  Devines,  of  the  Monmouths,  were  chosen  as  leaders. 
They  were  the  only  two  on  the  ground  who  wore  no  favours: 
and  they  fronted  each  other  with  smiles  of  approval;  their  re- 
spective teams  —  ten  a  side  —  drawn  up  in  two  long  Hnes; 
heads  caged  in  wire  masks,  tufted  with  curly  feathers,  red  and 
blue;  ponies  champing  and  pawing  the  air.  Not  precisely  a 
picturesque  array;  but  if  the  plumes  and  trappings  of  chivalry 
were  lacking,  the  spirit  of  it  still  flickered  within ;  and  will 
continue  to  flicker  just  so  long  as  modem  woman  will  permit. 

At  the  crack  of  a  pistol  they  were  off  full  tilt;  but  there  was 
no  shock  of  lance  on  shield,  no  crash  and  clang  of  armour  that 
'could  be  heard  at  a  mile's  distance,'  as  in  the  days  of  Ivanhoe. 
There  was  only  the  sharp  rattle  of  fencing-sticks  against  each 
other  and  the  masks,  the  clatter  of  eighty-eight  hooves  on  hard 
ground;  a  lively  confusion  of  horses  and  men,  advancing, 
backing,  'turning  on  a  sixpence'  to  meet  a  sudden  attack; 
voices,  Indian  and  English,  shouting  or  cheering;  and  the  inter- 
mittent call  of  the  umpire  declaring  a  player  knocked  out  as  his 
feather  fluttered  mto  the  dust.  Clouds  of  dust  enveloped  them 
in  a  shifting  haze.  They  breathed  dust.  It  gritted  between  their 
teeth.  What  matter?  They  were  having  at  each  other  in  furious 
yet  friendly  combat,  and,  being  Englishmen,  they  were  perfectly 


332  FAR  TO  SEEK 

happy;  keen  to  win,  ready  to  lose  with  a  good  grace  and  cheer 
the  better  man. 

In  none  of  them,  perhaps,  did  the  desire  to  win  bum  quite  so 
fiercely  as  in  Lance  and  Roy.  But  more  than  ever,  now,  Roy 
shrank  from  a  final  tussle  between  them.  Surely  there  was  one 
man  of  them  all  good  enough  to  put  Lance  out  of  court. 

For  a  time  Major  Devines  kept  him  occupied.  While  Roy 
accounted  for  two  red  feathers,  the  well-matched  pair  were  mak- 
ing a  fine  fight  of  it  up  and  down  the  field  to  the  tune  of  cheers 
and  counter-cheers.  But  it  was  the  blue  feather  that  fell:  —  and 
Lance,  swinging  round,  charged  into  the  melee:  seven  reds  now, 
to  six  blue. 

Twice,  in  the  scrimmage,  Roy  came  up  against  him;  but 
managed  to  shift  ground,  leaving  another  man  to  tackle  him. 
Both  times  it  was  the  blue  feather  that  fell.  Steadily  the  num- 
bers thinned.  Roy's  wrist  and  arm  were  tiring,  a  trifle;  but  re- 
solve burned  fiercely  as  ever.  By  now  it  was  clear  to  all  who  were 
the  two  best  men  in  the  field;  and  excitement  rose  as  the  niun- 
bers  dwindled  .  .  . 

r  Four  to  three;  blues  leading.  Two  all.  And  at  last  —  an 
empty,  dusty  arena,  and  they  two  alone  in  the  midst;  ringed  in 
by  thousands  of  faces,  thousands  of  eyes .  .  . 

Till  that  moment,  the  spectators  had  simply  not  existed  for 
Roy.  Now,  of  a  sudden,  they .  crowded  in  on  him  —  a  tightly 
wedged  wall  of  hmnanity  —  expectant,  terrifying. 

The  two  had  drawn  rein,  facing  each  other;  and  for  that  mere 
moment  Roy  felt  as  if  his  nerve  was  gone.  A  glance  at  the  crowded 
tent,  the  gleam  of  a  blue-green  figure  leaning  forward  .  .  . 

Then  Lance's  voice,  low  and  peremptory,  'Come  on.' 

In  the  same  breath  he  himself  came  on,  with  formidable  ^lan. 
Their  sticks  rattled  sharply.  Roy  parried  a  high  slicing  stroke  — 
only  just  in  time.  Thank  God,  he  was  himself  again:  so  much 
himself  that  he  was  beset  by  a  sneaking  desire  to  let  Lance  win. 
It  was  his  weakness  in  games,  just  when  the  goal  seemed  in  sight. 
Tara  used  to  scold  him  fiercely  .  .  . 

But  there  Miss  Arden,  the  rosebud  .  .  . 

And  suddenly,  startlingly,  Roy  became  aware  that  for  Lance 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  333 

this  was  no  game.  He  was  fencing  like  a  man  inspired.  There 
was  more  than  mere  skill  in  his  feints  and  shrewd  blows;  more 
in  it  than  a  feather. 

Two  cuts  over  the  arm  and  shoulder,  a  good  deal  sharper  than 
need  be,  fairly  roused  Roy.  Next  moment  they  were  literally 
fighting,  at  closest  range,  for  all  they  were  worth,  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  yell  on  yell,  cheer  on  cheer  ... 

As  the  issue  himg  doubtful  and  excitement  intensified,  it  be- 
came clear  that  Lance  was  losing  his  temper.  Roy,  hurt  and  an- 
gry, tried  to  keep  cool.  Against  an  antagonist,  so  skilled  and  res- 
olute, it  was  his  only  chance.  Their  names  were  shouted. 
"Shahbash  Sinkiv  Sahib,"  *  from  the  men  of  Roy's  old  squadron: 
and  from  Lance's  men,  "Desmin  Sahib  Kijai!"^ 

Twice  Roy's  slicing  stroke  almost  came  off;  —  almost,  not 
quite.  The  maddening  little  feather  still  held  its  own:  and 
Lance,  by  way  of  rejoinder,  caught  him  a  blow  on  his  mask 
that  made  his  head  ache  for  an  hour  after. 

Up  went  his  arm  to  return  the  blow  with  interest.  Lance, 
instead  of  parrying,  lunged  —  and  the  head  of  a  yellow  bud 
dropped  in  the  dust. 

At  that  Roy  saw  red.  His  lifted  hand  shook  visibly;  and  with 
the  moment's  loss  of  control  went  his  last  hope  of  victory  .  . . 

Next  instant  his  feather  had  joined  the  rosebud:  the  crowd 
were  roaring  themselves  hoarse;  and  Roy  was  riding  off  the 
groimd,  shorn  of  plume  and  favour,  furiously  disappointed,  and 
feeling  a  good  deal  more  bruised  about  the  arms  and  shoulders 
than  anything  on  earth  would  have  induced  him  to  admit. 

Of  course  he  ought  to  go  up  and  congratulate  Lance;  but  just  ; 
then  it  seemed  a  physical  impossibility.  Mercifully  Lance  was  sur- 
rounded and  borne  off  to  the  refreshment  tent;  sped  on  his  way 
by  a  rousing  ovation  as  he  passed  the  shamianah. 

Roy,  following  after,  had  his  full  share  of  praise,  and  a  stirring 
salvo  of  applause  from  the  main  tent. 

Saluting  and  looking  round,  he  dared  not  meet  Miss  Arden's 
eye.  Had  he  won,  she  might  have  owned  him.  As  it  was,  he  had 
better  keep  his  distance.  But  the  glimpse  he  got  of  her  face 

»  Well  done,  Sinclair  Sahib.  •  Victory  to  Desmond  Sahib.   , 


334  FAR  TO  SEEK 

startled  him.  It  looked  curiously  white  and  strained.  His  own 
imagination,  perhaps.  It  was  only  a  flash.  But  it  haunted  him. 
He  felt  responsible.  She  had  been  so  radiantly  sure  ...  i 

Arrived  in  the  other  tent  —  feeling  stupidly  giddy  and  in 
pain  —  he  sank  down  on  the  first  available  chair.  Friendly  spir- 
its ordered  drinks  and  soothed  him  with  compliments:  a  thunder- 
ing good  fight;  to  be  so  narrowly  beaten  by  Desmond  was  an 
achievement  in  itself;  and  so  forth. 

Lance  and  Paul,  still  surroimded,  were  at)  the  other  end  of  the 
long  table;  and  a  very  fair  wedge  of  thirsty,  perspiring  manhood 
filled  the  intervening  space.  Roy  did  not  feel  Uke  stirring.  He 
felt  more  like  drinking  half  a  dozen  'pegs'  in  succession.  But 
soon  he  was  aware  of  a  move  going  on.  The  prizes,  of  course; 
and  he  had  two  to  collect.  By  a  special  decree  the  Tournament 
prize  would  be  given  first.  So  he  need  not  hurry  himself.  The 
tent  was  emptying  swiftly.  He  must  screw  himself  up  to  congrat- 
ulations .  .  . 

The  screwing  was  still  in  process  when  Lance  himself  crossed 
the  tent  —  nearly  empty  now  —  and  stood  before  him. 

"See  here,  Roy  —  I  apologise,"  he  said  hurriedly,  in  a  low 
tone.  "I  lost  my  temper.  Not  fair  play —  " 

Instantly  Roy  was  on  his  feet;  shoulders  squared,  the  last 
spark  of  antagonism  extinct. 

"If  it  comes  to  that,  I  lost  mine  too,"  he  admitted,  and  Lance 
smiled. 

"  You  did!  But  —  I  began  it."  There  was  an  instant  of  painful 
hesitation:  then:  "It  —  it  was  an  accident  —  the  favour  —  " 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  Roy  muttered,  embarrassed  and  over- 
come. 

"It's  not  all  right.  It  put  you  off."  Another  pause.  "Will 
you  take  half  the  purse?" 

"Not  I."  Glory  apart,  he  knew  very  well  how  badly  Lance 
needed  the  money.  "It's  yours.  You  deserve  it." 

They  both  spoke  low  and  rapidly,  as  if  on  a  matter  of  business: 
for  there  were  still  some  men  at  the  other  end  of  the  tent.  But 
at  that,  to  Roy's  amazement,  Lance  held  out  his  hand. 

"Thanks,  old  man.  Shake  hands  —  here,  where  the  women 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  335 

can  see  us.  You  bet  — they  twigged—  And  they  chatter  so 
infernally  .  .  .  Unfair  —  on  Miss  Arden  —  " 

Roy  felt  himself  reddening.  It  was  Lance  all  over— that 
chivalrous  impulse.  So  they  shook  hands  pubUcly,  to  the  aston- 
ishment of  interested  kiimutgars,  who  had  been  betting  freely 
and  were  marvelUng  afresh  at  the  strange  ways  of  Sahibs. 

"I'll  doctor  your  bruises  to-night!"  said  Lance.  "And  I 
accept,  gratefully,  your  share  of  the  purse.  —  She  won't  relish  — 
giving  it  to  the  wrong  'un."  The  last,  barely  audible,  came 
out  in  a  rush,  with  a  jerk  of  the  head  that  Roy  knew  well. 
"Come  along  and  see  how  prettily  she  does  it." 

To  Roy's  infatuated  eyes  she  did  it  inimitably.  Standing  there, 
tall  and  serene,  in  her  pale-coloured  gown  and  bewitching  hat, 
instinct  with  the  mysterious  authority  of  beauty,  she  handed  the 
prize  to  Desmond  with  a  little  gracious  speech  of  congratulation,  j. 
adding:  "It  was  a  close  fight;  but  you  won  it  —  fairly."  ] 

Roy  started.  Did  Lance  notice  the  lightest  imaginable  stress 
on  the  word? 

"Thanks  very  much,"  he  said;  and  saluted,  looking  her 
straight  in  the  eyes. 

Roy,  watching  intently,  fancied  he  saw  a  ghost  of  a  blush  stir 
imder  the  even  pallor  of  her  skin.  She  had  told  him  once,  in 
joke,  that  she  never  blushed;  it  was  not  one  of  her  accomplish- 
ments. But  for  half  a  second  she  came  perilously  near  it;  and 
although  it  enhanced  her  beauty  tenfold,  it  troubled  Roy.  j 
Then  —  as  the  cheering  died  down  —  he  saw  her  turn  to  the 
Colonel,  who  was  supporting  her,  and  heard  her  clear,  deliber- 
ate tones,  that  carried  with  so  little  effort:  "I  think,  Colonel 
Desmond,  everyone  must  agree  that  the  honours  are  almost 
equally  divided  —  " 

More  applause;  and  Roy  —  scarcely  able  to  believe  his  ears  or 
eyes  —  saw  her  pick  a  rose  from  her  cluster.  The  moment  speech 
was  possible,  she  leaned  forward,  smiling  frankly  at  him  before 
them  all. 

"  Mr.  Sinclair  —  will  you  accept  a  mere  token  by  way  of  con- 
solation prize?  We  are  all  agreed  you  put  up  a  splendid  fight; 
and  it  was  no  dishonour  to  be  defeated  by  —  such  an  adversary." 


336  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Fresh  clapping  and  shouting;  while  Roy  —  elated  and  over- 
whelmed —  went  forward  like  a  man  walking  in  a  dream. 

It  was  a  dream  woman  who  pinned  the  rosebud  in  his  empty 
buttonhole,  patting  it  into  shape  with  the  lightest  touch  of  her 
finger-tips,  saying,  "Well  done,  indeed,"  and  smiling  at  him 
again .  .  . 

Without  a  word  he  saluted  and  walked  away. 

Lance  had  been  a  truer  prophet  than  he  knew.  She  had  done 
it  prettily,  past  question;  and  in  a  fashion  all  her  own. 


Chapter  VI 

Blood  and  brain  and  spirit,  three  — 
Join  for  true  felicity. 
Are  they  parted,  then  expect 
Someone  sailing  will  be  wrecked. 

George  Meredith 

On  the  night  after  the  Gymkhana  the  great  little  world  of  Lahore 
was  again  disporting  itself  with  unabated  vigour  m  the  pil- 
lared baUroom  of  the  Lawrence  Hall.  They  could  tell  tales  worth 
inditing,  those  pillars  and  galleries  that  have  witnessed  all  the 
major  festivities  of  Punjab  Anglo-India  —  its  loves  and  jealous- 
ies and  high-hearted  courage  —  from  the  day  of  crinolines  and 
whiskers  to  this  day  of  the  toothbrush  moustache,  the  retiring 
skirts  and  still  more  retiring  bodices  of  after-war  economy. 
And  there  are  those  who  beheve  they  will  witness  the  revelry 
of  Anglo-Indian  generations  yet  to  be. 

Had  Lance  Desmond  shared  Roy's  gift  for  visions,  he  might 
have  seen,  in  spirit,  the  ghosts  of  his  mother  and  father  in  the 
pride  of  their  youth,  and  that  first  legendary  girl-wife,  of  whom 
Thea  had  once  told  him  all  she  knew,  and  whose  grave  he  had 
seen  in  Kohat  cemetery  with  a  queer  mingling  of  pity  and  resent- 
ment in  his  heart.  There  should  have  been  no  one  except  his 
own  splendid  mother  —  first,  last,  and  all  the  time. 

But  Lance,  though  no  scoffer,  had  small  intimacy  with  ghosts; 
and  Roy's  frequented  other  regions;  nor  was  he  himself  in  the 
frame  of  mind  to  induce  spiritual  visitations.  Soul  and  body 
were  enmeshed,  as  in  a  network  of  sunbeams,  holding  him  close 
to  earth.  For  weeks  part  of  him  had  been  fighting,  subconsciously, 
against  the  compeUing  power  that  is  woman;  now,  consciously, 
he  was  alive  to  it,  swept  along"  by  it,  as  by  a  tidal  wave.  Since 
that  amazing  moment  at  the  prize-giving,  all  his  repressed  fer- 
ment had  welled  up  and  overflowed;  and  when  an  imaginative, 
emotional  nature  loses  grip  on  the  reins,  the  pace  b  apt  to  be 
headlong,  the  course  perilous  .  .  . 

He  had  dined  at  the  Eltons'  —  a  lively  party;  chaff  and  laugh- 


338  FAR  TO  SEEK 

ter  and  champagne;  and  Miss  Arden  —  after  yesterday's  gra- 
ciousness — in  a  tantalising,  elusive  mood.  But  he  had  his  dances 
secure:  —  six  out  of  twenty;  not  to  mention  tlie  cotillion  after 
supper,  which  they  were  to  lead.  And  she  was  wearing,  at  his 
request,  what  he  called  her  'Undine  frock'  —  a  cHnging  affair 
fringed  profusely  with  silver  and  palest  green,  that  suggested  to 
his  fancy  Undine  emerging  from  the  stream  in  a  dripping  gar- 
ment of  water  weeds.  Her  arms  and  shoulders  emerged  from  it  a 
little  too  noticeably  for  his  taste;  but  to-night  his  critical  brain 
was  in  abeyance.  Look  where  he  would,  talk  to  whom  he 
would,  he  was  persistently,  distractingly  aware  of  her:  and  she 
could  not  elude  him  the  whole  evening  long .  .  . 

Supper  was  over.  The  cotillion  itself  was  almost  over;  the 
Maypole  figure  adding  a  flutter  of  bright  ribbons  to  the  array 
of  flags  and  bunting,  evening  dresses  and  uniforms.  Twice,  in 
the  earlier  figures,  she  had  chosen  him;  but  this  time  the  chance 
issue  of  pairing  by  colours  gave  her  to  Desmond.  Roy  saw  a 
curious  look  pass  between  them.  Then  Lance  put  his  arm 
round  her;  and  they  danced  without  a  break. 

When  it  was  over,  Roy  went  in  search  of  iced  coffee.  In  a  few 
seconds  those  two  appeared  on  the  same  errand  and  merged 
themselves  in  a  lively  group.  Roy,  irresistibly,  followed  suit; 
and  when  the  music  struck  up,  Lance  handed  her  over  with  a 
formal  bow. 

"Your  partner,  I  think,  old  man.  Thanks  for  the  loan,"  he 
said;  and  his  smile  was  for  Roy  as  he  turned  and  walked  lei- 
surely away. 

Roy  looked  after  him,  feeling  pained  and  puzzled;  the  more  so 
because  Lance  clearly  had  the  whip  hand.  It  was  she  who 
seemed  the  less  assured  of  the  two,  and  he  caught  himself  wishing 
he  possessed  the  power  so  to  upsel  her  equanimity.  Was  it  even 
remotely  possible  thai  —  she  cared  seriously  and  Lance  would 
not .  .  .  ? 

"Brown  studies  aren't  permitted  in  ballrooms,  Mr.  Sinclair!" 
she  rallied  him  in  her  gentlest  voice  —  and  Lance  was  forgotten. 
"Come  and  tie  an  extra  big  choc  on  to  my  fishing-rod." 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  339 

Roy  disapproved  of  the  chocolate  figure,  as  derogatory  to 
masculine  dignity.  Six  brief -skirted,  briefer-bodiced  girls  stood 
on  chairs  each  dangling  a  chocolate  cream  from  a  fishing-rod  of 
bamboo  and  coloured  ribbon.  Before  them,  on  six  cushions, 
'  knelt  six  men;  heads  tilted  back,  bobbing  this  way  and  that,  at 
the  caprice  of  the  angler;  occasionally  losing  balance,  and  half 
toppling  over  amid  shouts  and  cheers. 

How  did  that  kind  of  fooling  strike  the  'kits'  and  the  Indian 
bandsmen  up  aloft,  wondered  Roy.  A  pity  they  never  give  a 
thought  to  that  side  of  the  picture.  He  determined  not  to  be 
drawn  in.  Lance,  he  noticed,  studiously  refrained.  Miss  Arden 

—  having  tantalised  three  aspirants  —  was  looking  roimd  for  a 
fourth  victim.  Their  eyes  met —  and  he  was  done  for  .  .  . 

The  moment  his  knee  touched  the  cushion,  he  would  have 
given  the  world  for  courage  to  back  out.  And — as  if  aware  of 
his  reluctance — she  played  him  mercilessly,  smiling  down  on 
him  with  her  astonishing  hazel  eyes.  Roy's  patience  gave  out. 
Tingling  with  mortification,  he  rose  and  walked  away,  to  be 
greeted  with  a  volley  of  good-natiu-ed  chaff. 

He  was  followed  by  Lister,  'the  R.E.  boy*  —  who  at  once 
secured  the  elusive  bait,  clearly  by  favour  rather  than  skill. 
The  rest  had  already  paired.  The  band  struck  up:  and  Roy, 
partnerless,  stood  looking  on —  the  film  of  the  East  over  his  still 
face  masking  the  clash  of  forces  within.  The  fool  he  was  to  have 
given  way!  And  this — before  them  all — after  yesterday.  .  .1 
His  essential  masculinity  stood  confoimded;  bUnd  to  the  instinct 
of  the  essential  coquette —  allurement  by  flight.  He  resolved  to 
take  no  part  in  the  final  figure —  the  mirror  and  handkerchief; 
would  not  even  look  at  her,  lest  she  catch  his  eye. 

Her  choice  fell  on  Hayes;  and  Roy — elaborately  indifferent 

—  carried  Lance  off  to  the  buffet  for  champagne  cup.  It  was  a 
f  thirsty  evening:  a  reUef  to  be  quit  of  the  ballroom  andget  a 
'  breath  of  masculine  fresh  air.  The  fencing  bout  and  its  after- 
i  math  had  consciously  quickened  his  feehng  for  Lance.  In  the 

fury  of  that  fight  they  seemed  to  have  worked  off  all  the  hidden 
friction  of  the  past  few  weeks  that  had  dimmed  the  steady  radi- 
ance of  their  friendship.  It  was  as  if  a  storm-cloud  had  burst 


340  FAR  TO  SEEK 

and  the  sun  shone  out  again.  They  said  nothing  intimate;  noth- 
ing worthy  of  note.  They  were  simply  content. 

Yet,  when  music  struck  up,  content  evaporated — for  Roy, 
at  least.  He  was  in  a  fever  to  be  with  her  again. 

Her  welcoming  smile  revived  his  reckless  mood.  "Ours  — 
this  time,  anyway,"  he  said,  in  an  odd,  repressed  voice. 

"Yes — ours." 

Her  answering  look  vanquished  him  utterly.  As  his  arm  en- 
circled her  he  fancied  she  leaned  ever  so  Uttle  towards  him,  as  if 
admitting  that  she  too  felt  the  thrill  of  coming  together  again. 
Fancy  or  no,  it  was  like  a  lighted  match  dropped  in  a  powder 
magazine  .  .  . 

For  Roy,  that  single  valse,  out  of  scores  they  had  danced  to- 
gether, was  an  experience  by  itself.  While  the  music  plays,  a 
man  encircles  one  woman  and  another,  from  sheer  habit,  without 
a  flicker  of  emotion.  But  to-night  volcanic  forces  in  Roy  were 
rising  like  champagne  when  the  cork  begins  to  move.  Never 
before  had  he  been  so  disturbingly  aware  that  he  was  holding 
her  in  his  arms;  that  he  wanted  tremendously  to  go  on  holding 
her  when  the  music  stopped.  To  this  danger  point  he  had  been 
brought,  by  the  unconscious  effect  of  delicate  approaches  and  stra- 
tegic retreats.  And  the  man  who  has  most  firmly  kept  the  cork 
on  his  emotions  is  often  the  most  unaccoimtable  when  it  flies 
off  .  .  . 

The  music  ceased.  They  were  simply  partners  again.  He  led 
her  out  into  starry  darkness,  velvet  soft;  very  quiet  and  con- 
tained to  the  outer  eye;  inwardly,  of ,a  sudden,  afraid  of  himself; 
still  more  afraid  of  the  serenely  beautiful  girl  at  his  side.  The 
crux  of  the  trouble  was  that  he  knew  perfectly  well  what  he 
wanted  to  do;  but  not  at  all  what  he  wanted  to  say.  For  him, 
as  his  mother's  son,  marriage  had  a  sacredness,  an  apartness 
from  random  emotions,  however  overwhelming;  and  it  went 
against  the  grain  to  approach  that  supreme  subject  in  his  present 
fine  confusion  of  heart  and  body  and  brain. 

They  wandered  on  a  little.  Like  himself,  she  seemed  smitten 
dumb;  and  with  every  moment  of  silence  he  became  more 
acutely  aware  of  her.  He  had  discovered  that  this  was  one  of  her 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  •  341 

most  potent  spells.  Never  for  long  could  a  man  be  unaware  of 
her,  of  the  fact  that  she  was — before  everything — a  woman. 
In  a  sense  —  how  different!  —  it  had  been  the  same  with  Aruna. 
But  with  Aruna,  it  was  primitive,  instinctive.  This  exotic  flower 
of  Western  girlhood  wielded  her  power  with  conscious,  consum- 
mate skill .  .  . 

Near  a  seat  well  away  from  the  Hall,  she  stopped.  "We 
don't  want  any  more  exercise,  do  we?  "  she  said  softly. 

"I've  had  enough,  for  the  present,"  he  answered.  And  they 
sat  down. 

Silence  again.  He  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  her.  He  only 
craved  overwhelmingly  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  Had  she  a 
glimmering  idea  —  sitting  there,  so  close ...  so  alluring .  .  .  ? 

And  suddenly  to  his  immense  relief,  she  spoke. 

"It  was  splendid.  A  pity  it's  over.  That's  the  litany  of 
Anglo-India:  —  it's  over.  Change  the  scene.  Shuffle  the  pup- 
pets —  and  begin  again   I've  been  doing  it  for  six  years  —  " 

"And  —  it  doesn't  pall?"  His  voice  sounded  quite  natmral, 
quite  composed,  which  was  also  a  relief. 

"Pall?  —  You  try  it!"  For  the  first  time  he  detected  a  famt 
note  of  bitterness.  "But  still  —  a  cotillion's  a  cotillion!"  — 
She  seemed  to  pull  herself  together.  —  "There's  an  exciting 
element  in  it  that  keeps  its  freshness.  And  I  flatter  myself  we 
carried  it  through  brilliantly  —  you  and  I."  The  pause  before 
the  linked  pronouns  gave  him  an  odd  little  thrill.  "But  —  what 
put  you  off  —  at  the  end?  " 

Her  amazing  directness  dmnbfounded  him.  "I  —  oh,  well  —  I 
thought .  .  .  one  way  and  another,  you'd  been  having  enough 
of  me." 

"That's  not  true!"  She  glanced  at  him  sidelong.  "You  were 
vexed  because  I  chose  the  Lister  boy.  And  he  was  all  over  him- 
self, poor  dear!  As  a  matter  of  fact  —  I  meant  to  have  you.  If 
you'd  only  looked  at  me ...  I  But  you  stared  fiercely  the 
other  way.  However  —  perhaps  we've  been  flagrant  enough  for 
to-night  —  '* 

"  Flagrant  —  have  we?  " 

Daring,  passionate  words  thronged  his  brain;  and  through  his 


342  FAR  TO  SEEK 

inner  turmoil  he  heard  her  answer  lightly:  "Don't  ask  me!  Ask 
the  Banter-Wrangle.  She  knows  to  an  inch  the  degrees  of  fla- 
grance  officially  permitted  to  the  attached  and  the  unattached! 
You  see,  in  India,  we're  allowed ...  a  certain  latitude." 

"Yes  —  I've  noticed.  It's  a  pity.  ..."  Words  simply  would 
not  come,  on  this  theme  of  all  others.  Was  she .  .  .  indirectly 
.  .  .  teUing  him .  .  .  ? 

"And  you  disapprove  —  tooth  and  nail?"  she  queried  gently. 
"I  hoped  you  were  different.  You  don't  know  how  tired  we  are 
of  eternal  disapproval  from  people  who  simply  know  nothing  — 
nothing  —  " 

"But  I  don't  disapprove,"  he  blurted  out  vehemently.  "It 
always  strikes  me  as  a  rather  middle-class,  puritanical  attitude. 
I  only  think  —  it's  a  thousand  pities  to  take  the  bloom  off .  .  . 
the  big  thing  —  the  real  thing  by  playing  at  it  (you  can  see  they 
do)  —  like  lawn  tennis,  just  to  pass  the  time  —  " 

"Well,  Heaven  knows,  we've  got  to  pass  the  time  out  here  — 
wwehow!"  she  retorted,  with  a  sudden  warmth  that  startled  him: 
it  was  so  unlike  her.  "All  very  fine  for  people  at  Home  to  turn 
up  superior  noses  at  us;  '  to  say  we  'Hve  in  bhnkers;  that  we've 
no  intellectual  pursuits,  no  interest  in  'this  wonderful  country.' 
I  confess,  to  some  of  us,  India  and  its  people  are  holy  terrors. 
As  for  art  and  music  and  theatres  —  where  are  they,  except  what 
we  make  for  ourselves,  in  our  indefatigable,  amateurish  way? 
Can't  you  see  —  you  with  your  imaginative  insight  —  that  we 
have  virtually  nothing  but  each  other?  If  we  spent  our  days 
bowing  and  scraping  and  dining  and  dancing  with  due  decorum, 
there'd  be  a  boom  in  suicides  and  the  people  in  clover  at  Home 
would  placidly  wonder  why  —  ?  " 

"But  do  listen  —  I'm  not  blaming  —  any  of  you,"  he  ex- 
claimed, distracted  by  her  complete  misreading  of  his  mood. 

"Well,  you're  criticising  —  in  your  heart.  And  your  opinion's 
worth  something  —  to  some  of  us.  Even  if  we  do  occasionally  — 
play  at  being  in  love,  there's  always  the  off  chance  it  may  turn 
out  to  be  .  .  .  the  real  thing."  She  drew  an  audible  breath 
and  added,  in  her  lighter  vein:  "You  know,  you're  a  very  fair 
hand  at  it,  yourself  —  in  your  restrained,  fakirish  fashion  —  " 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  343 

"But  I  don't  — I'm  not  —  "  he  stammered  desperately. 
"  And  wHy  d'you  call  me  a  fakir?  It's  not  the  first  time.  And  it's 
not  true.  I  believe  in  life  —  and  the  fulness  of  life." 

"I'm  glad.  I'm  not  keen  on  fakirs.  But  I  only  meant  —  one 
can't  picture  you  playmg  round,  the  way  heaps  of  men  do  with 
girls  .  .  .  who  allow  them  ..." 

"No.  That's  true.  I  never—  " 

"What  —  never?  Or  is  it  'hardly  ever'?" 

She  leaned  a  shade  nearer;  her  beautiful  pale  face  etherealised 
by  starshine.  And  that  infinitesimal  movement,  her  low  tone, 
the  sheer  magnetism  of  her  swept  him  clean  from  his  moorings. 
Words,  low  and  passionate,  came  all  in  a  rush. 

"What  are  you  doing  with  me?  Why  d'you  tantalise  me? 
Whether  you're  there  or  not  there,  your  face  haunts  me  —  your 
voice  —  It  may  be  play  for  you  —  it  isn't  for  me  —  " 

"I've  never  said  —  I've  never  implied  —  it  was  play.  .  . 
for  me  —  "  This  time  perceptibly  she  leaned  nearer:  mute  con- 
fession in  her  look,  her  tone;  and  delicate  fire  ran  in  his  veins  .  .  . 

Next  moment  his  arms  were  round  her;  trembling,  yet  vehe- 
ment; crushing  her  against  him  almost  roughly.  No  mistaking 
the  response  of  her  lips;  yet  she  never  stirred;  only  the  fingers 
of  her  right  hand  closed  sharply  on  his  arm.  Having  hold  of  her 
at  last,  after  all  that  inner  tumult  and  resistance,  he  could  hardly 
let  her  go.  Yet  —  strangely  —  even  in  the  white  heat  of  fervour, 
some  detached  fragment  at  the  core  of  him  seemed  to  be  hating 
the  whole  thing,  hating  himself  —  and  her  — 

Instantly  he  released  her .  .  .  looked  at  her .  ,  .  realised 
...  In  those  few  tempestuous  moments  he  had  burnt  his  boats, 
in  very  deed  .  .  . 

She  met  his  eyes  now;  found  them  too  eloquent;  and  veiled 
her  own. 

"No.  You  are  not  altogether  —  a  fakir,"  she  said  softFy. 

"I'd  no  business.  I'm  sorry ..."  he  began,  answering  his 
own  swift  compunction,  not  her  remark. 

"/'m  not  —  tmless  you  really  mean  —  you  are?"  Faint  rail- 
lery gleamed  in  her  eyes.  "You  did  rather  overwhelmingly 
take  things  for  granted.  But  still .  .  .  after  that ..." 


344  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Yes  —  after  that ...  if  you  really  mean  it?" 

"Well .  .  .  what  do  you  think?" 

"I  simply  can't  think,"  he  confessed  with  transparent  honesty. 
"I  hardly  know  if  I'm  on  my  head  or  my  heels.  I  only  know 
you've  bewitched  me.  I'm  infatuated  —  intoxicated  with  you  — 
But ...  if  you  do  care  enough  ...  to  marry  me  —  " 

"My  dear  —  Roy  —  can  you  doubt  it?" 

He  had  never  heard  her  voice  so  charged  with  emotion.  For 
all  answer  he  held  her  close  —  with  less  assurance  now  —  and 
kissed  her  again .  .  . 

In  course  of  time  they  remembered  that  a  pause  only  lasts  five 
minutes;  that  there  were  other  partners. 

"If  we're  not  to  be  too  flagrant,  even  for  India,"  she  said,  rising 
with  her  unperturbed  dehberation,  "I  suggest  we  go  in.  Good- 
ness knows  where  they've  got  to!" 

He  stood  up  also.  "It  matters  a  good  deal  more .  .  .  where 
ife've  got  to.  I'll  come  over  to-morrow  and  see .  .  .  your 
people ..." 

"No.  You'll  come  over  —  and  see  me!  We'U  descend  from 
the  dream ...  to  the  business;  and  have  everything  clear  to 
our  own  satisfaction,  before  we ...  let  in  all  the  others. 
Besides  —  I  always  vowed  I  wouldn't  accept  a  proposal  after 
supper!  If  you're.  .  .intoxicated,  you  might  wake  sober  — 
disillusioned!" 

"  But  I  —  I've  kissed  you,"  he  stammered,  suddenly  overcome 
with  shyness. 

"  So  you  have  —  a  few  times!  I'm  afraid  we  didn't  keep  coimt! 
—  I'm  not  really  doubting  either  of  us  —  Roy.  But  still .  .  . 
Shall  we  say  tea  and  a  ride?  " 

He  hesitated.  "  Sorry  —  I'm  booked.  I  promised  Lance  —  " 

"Very  well  —  dinner?  Mother  has  some  bridge  people.  Only 
one  table.  We  can  escape  into  the  garden.  Now  —  come  along." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath.  More  and  more  the  detached  part  of 
him  was  realising  .  .  . 

They  walked  back  rather  briskly;  not  speaking;  nor  did  he 
touch  her  again. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  345 

They  found  Lahore  still  dancing,  sublimely  unconcerned. 
Instinctively  Roy  looked  round  for  Lance.  No  sign  of  him  in  the 
ballroom  or  the  cardroom.  And  the  crowded  place  seemed  empty 
without  him.  It  was  queer.  Later  on  he  ran  up  against  Barnard, 
who  told  him  that  Lance  had  gone  home. 


Chapter  VII 

0/  the  unspoken  word,  thou  art  master. 
The  spoken  word  is  master  of  thee. 

Arab  Proverb 

Roy  drove  home  with  Barnard  in  the  small  hours;  still  too  over- 
wrought for  clear  thinking;  and  too  exhausted  all  through  to 
lie  awake  five  minutes  after  his  head  touched  the  pillow.  For  the 
inner  stress  and  combat  had  been  sharper  than  he  knew .  ,  . 

He  woke  late  to  find  Terry  curled  up  against  his  legs  and  the 
bungalow  empty  of  human  sounds.  The  other  three  were  up 
long  since,  and  gone  to  early  parade.  His  head  was  throbbing. 
He  felt  limp,  as  if  all  the  vigour  had  been  drained  out  of  him. 
And  suddenly  .  .  he  remembered  .  .  . 

Not  in  a  lover's  rush  of  exaltation,  but  with  a  sharp  reaction, 
almost  amounting  to  fear,  the  truth  dawned  on  him  that  he  was 
no  longer  his  own  man.  In  a  passionate  impulse  he  had  virtually 
surrendered  himself  and  his  future  into  the  hands  of  a  girl  whom 
he  scarcely  knew.  He  still  saw  the  whole  thing  as  mainly  her 
doing  —  and  it  frightened  him.  Looking  backward,  reviewing 
the  steps  by  which  he  had  arrived  at  last  night's  impromptu 
culmination,  he  felt  more  frightened  than  ever. 

And  yet  —  there  sprang  a  vision  of  her,  pale  and  slender  in 
the  starshine,  when  she  leaned  to  him  at  parting  .  .  . 

She  was  wonderful  and  beautiful  —  and  she  was  his.  Any  man 
worth  his  salt  would  feel  proud.  And  he  did  feel  proud  —  in  the 
intervals  of  feeling  horribly  afraid  of  himself  and  her:  especially 
her.  Girls  were  amazing  things.  You  seized  hold  of  one  and  spoke 
mad  words  and  nearly  crushed  the  life  out  of  her;  and  she  took 
it  almost  as  calmly  as  if  you  had  asked  for  an  extra  dance.  Was 
it  a  protective  layer  of  insensibility  —  or  supernormal  self- 
control?  Would  she,  Rose,  have  despised  him  had  she  guessed 
that  even  at  the  height  of  his  exaltation  he  had  felt  ashamed  of 
having  let  himself  go  so  completely;  and  that,  before  there  had 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  347 

been  any  word  of  marriage  —  any  clear  desire  of  it  even,  m  the 
deep  of  his  heart? 

That  was  really  the  root  of  his  trouble.  The  passing  recoU 
from  an  ardent  avowal  is  no  micommon  experience  with  the 
finer  types  of  men.  But  to  Roy  it  seemed  peculiarly  unfitting 
tOiat  the  son  of  his  mother  should  stumble  into  marriage  in  a 
headlong  impulse  of  passion,  on  a  superficial  sk  weeks'  acquaint- 
ance; and  the  shy,  spiritual  side  of  him  —  haunted  by  last 
night's  vivid  memory  —  felt  alarmed,  restive,  even  a  little  re- 
pelled. In  a  measure  Rose  was  right  when  she  dubbed  him  fakir. 
Artist  though  he  was,  and  ail-too  human,  there  lurked  in  him  a 
nascent  streak  of  the  ascetic,  accentuated  by  his  mother's  bid- 
ding and  his  own  strong  desire  to  keep  in  touch  with  her  and  with 
things  not  seen. 

And  there,  on  his  writmg-table,  stood  her  picture  mutely 
reproaching  him.  With  a  pang  he  realised  how  completely  she 
had  been  crowded  out  of  his  thoughts  during  these  weeks  of 
ferment.  What  would  she  think  of  it  all?  The  question  —  what 
would  Rose  think  of  her?  —  sunply  did  not  arise.  She  was  still 
supreme:  she  who  had  once  said  to  him,  "So  long  as  you  are 
thinking  first  of  me,  you  may  be  sure  That  Other  has  not  yet 
arrived." 

Was  Rose  Arden  —  for  all  her  beauty  and  witchery  —  gen- 
uinely that  other?  Beguiled  by  her  visible  perfections,  he  had 
taken  her  spiritually  for  granted.  And,  inexperienced  though  he 
was,  he  knew  well  enough  that  it  is  not  first  through  the  senses 
a  man  approaches  love  —  if  he  is  capable  of  that  high  and  com- 
plex emotion;  it  is  rather  through  imagination  and  admiration, 
through  sympathy  and  humour.  As  it  was,  he  had  not  a  glim- 
mering idea  how  she  would  consort  with  his  very  individual  inner 
self.  Yet  matters  were  virtually  settled  .  .  . 

And  suddenly,  like  a  javelin,  one  word  pierced  his  brain  — 
Lance!  Whatever  was  or  had  been  between  them,  he  felt  certain 
his  news  would  not  please  Lance  —  to  say  the  least  of  it.  And 
as  for  their  great  Kashmir  plan  .  .  .  ?  Why  the  devil  was  '.life 
such  a  confoundedly  complex  affair?  By  rights  he  ought  to  be 
*all  over  himself,'  having  won  such  a  wife.  Was  it  something 


348  FAR  TO  SEEK 

wrong  with  him?  Or  did  all  accepted  lovers  feel  like  this  —  the 
morning  after?  A  greater  number,  perhaps,  than  poets  or  novel- 
ists or  lovers  themselves  are  ever  likely  to  admit.  Very  cer- 
tainly he  would  not  admit  his  present  sensations  to  any  living  soul. 

Springing  out  of  bed,  he  shouted  for  c/zoto  hazri  ^  and  shaving- 
water:  drank  thirstily;  ate  hungrily;  and  had  just  cleared  his 
face  of  lather  when  Lance  came  in,  booted  and  spurred  —  bring- 
ing with  him,  as  always,  his  magnetic  atmosphere  of  vitality 
and  vigour. 

Standing  behind  Roy  he  ran  his  left  hand  lightly  up  the  back 
of  his  hair,  clenched  it  on  the  extra  thickness  at  the  top,  and  gave 
it  a  distinct  tug;  friendly,  but  sharp  enough  to  make  Roy  wince. 

"Slacker I  Master!  You  ought  to  have  been  out,  riding  ofE  the 
effects!  You  were  jolly  well  going  it  last  night.  And  you  jolly 
well  look  it,  this  morning.  Good  thing  I'm  free  on  the  fifteenth 
to  haul  you  away  from  all  this." 

Perhaps  because  they  had  first  met  at  an  age  when  eighteen 
months  seemed  an  immense  gap  between  them,  Lance  had  never 
quite  dropped  the  elder-brotherly  attitude  of  St.  Rupert  days. 

"Yes  —  a  rare  good  thing  —  "  Roy  echoed  —  and  stopped 
with  a  visible  jerk. 

"Well  —  what's  the  hitch?  Hit  out,  man.  Don't  mind  me." 

There  was  a  flash  of  impatience,  an  under-note  of  fore- 
knowledge, in  his  tone,  that  made  confession  at  once  easier  and 
harder  for  Roy. 

"I  suppose  it  was  —  pretty  glaring,"  he  admitted,  twitching 
his  head  away  from  those  strong  friendly  fingers.  "The  fact  is 
—  we're ...  as  good  as  engaged  —  " 

Again  he  broke  off,  arrested  by  the  masklike  stillness  of  Des- 
mond's face. 

"Congrats,  old  man,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  level  tone.  "I  got 
the  impression  ...  a  few  weeks  ago,  you  were  not  ready  for 
the  plunge.  But  you've  done  it  —  in  record  time."  A  pause. 
Roy  sat  there  tongue-tied;  unreasonably  angry  with  himseK  — 
and  Rose.  "Why  —  'as  good  as.  .  .  '?  Is  it  to  be.  .  .not 
official?" 

»  Early  tea. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  349 

"Only  —  till  to-morrow.  You  see,  it  all  came .  .  .  rather  in 
a  rush.  She  thought ...  we  thought .  .  .  better  talk  things  over 
first  between  ourselves.  After  aU .  .  .  " 

"Yes  —  after  all,"  Lance  took  him  up.  "You  do  know  a  pre- 
cious lot  about  each  other  I  —  How  much.  .  .does  slie  know 
.  .  .  about  youf " 

"Oh,  my  dancing  and  ridmg,  my  temperament  and  the  colour 
of  my  eyes;  four  very  important  items!"  said  Roy,  affecting  a 
lightness  he  was  far  from  feeling. 

Lance  ignored  his  untimely  flippancy.  "Have  you  ever . . . 
happened  to  mention  .  .  .  your  mother? " 

"Not  yet.  Why  —  ?"  The  question  startled  him. 

"It  occurred  to  me.  I  merely  wondered  —  " 

"Well,  of  course  I  shall  —  to-night." 

Lance  nodded;  pensively  fingered  his  riding-crop;  and  re- 
marked: "D'you  imagine,  now .  .  .  she's  going  to  let  you 
bury  yourself  up  Gilgit  way  —  with  me?  Besides  —  you'll 
hardly  care .  .  .  shall  we  call  it  'off'?" 

"Well,  you  are  —  1  Of  course  I'll  carel  I'm  damned  if  we  call 
it  'off.' " 

At  that  the  mask  vanished  from  Desmond's  face.  His  hand 
closed  vigorously  on  Roy's  shoulder.  "Good  man,"  he  said  in 
his  normal  voice.  "I'll  count  on  you.  That's  a  bargam."  Their 
eyes  met  in  the  glass  and  a  look  of  understanding  passed  between 
them.  "Feeling  a  bit  above  yourself  —  are  you?" 

Roy  drew  a  great  breath.  "It's  amazing.  I  don't  yet  seem  to 
take  it  in." 

"Oh  —  you  will."  The  hand  closed  again  on  his  shoulder. 
"Now  I'll  dear  out.  Time  you  were  clothed  and  in  your  right 
mmd!" 

And  they  had  not  so  much  as  mentioned  her  namel 

But  even  when  clothed,  Roy  did  not  feel  altogether,  in  his 
right  mind.  He  was  downright  thankful  to  be  helping  Lance 
with  some  sports  for  the  men,  designed  to  counteract  the  infec- 
tious state  of  ferment  prevailing  in  the  city  on  accoimt  of  to- 
morrow's deferred  hartal.  For  the  voice  of  Mahatma  Ghandi  — 
saint,  fanatic,  revolutionary,  which  you  will  —  had  gone  forth, 


350  FAR  TO  SEEK 

proclaiming  the  sixth  of  April  a  day  of  universal  mourning  and 
non-co-operation,  by  way  of  protest  against  the  Rowlatt  Act. 
For  that  sane  measure  —  framed  to  safeguard  India  from  her 
wilder  elements  —  had  been  twisted  by  skilled  weavers  of  words 
into  a  plot  against  the  liberty  of  the  individual.  And  Ghandi 
must  be  obeyed.  Flamboyant  posters  in  the  city  bewailed  *  the 
mountain  of  calamity  about  to  fall  on  the  Motherland'  and 
consigned  their  souls  to  hell  who  failed,  that  day,  to  close  their 
business  and  keep  a  fast.  To  spiritual  threats  were  added  terror- 
ism and  coercion,  that  paralysis  might  be  complete. 

It  was  understood  that  so  long  as  there  was  no  disorder  the 
authorities  would  make  no  move.  But  by  Saturday  all  emergency 
plans  were  complete:  the  Fort  garrison  strengthened;  cavalry 
and  armoured  cars  told  off  to  be  ready  at  hand. 

Roy  had  no  notion  of  being  a  mere  onlooker  if  things  happened: 
and  he  felt  convinced  they  would.  The  moment  he  was  dressed, 
he  waited  on  the  Colonel  and  had  the  honour  to  volunteer  his 
services  in  case  of  need;  further  —  unofficially — to  beg  that 
he  might  be  attached  as  an  extra  officer  to  Lance's  squadron. 
The  Colonel  —  also  unofficially  —  expressed  his  keen  apprecia- 
tion; and  Roy  might  rest  assured  the  matter  would  be  arranged. 
So  he  went  off  in  high  featlier,  to  report  himself  to  Lance  and  dis- 
cuss the  afternoon's  programme. 

Lance  was  full  of  a  thorough  good  fellow  he  had  stumbled  on; 
a  Sikh  —  and  a  sometime  revolutionary  —  whose  eyes  had  been 
opened  by  three  years'  polite  detention  iri  Germany.  The  man 
had  been  speaking  all  over  the  place,  showing  up  the  Home  Rule 
crowd  with  a  courage  none  too  common  in  these  days  of  intimi- 
dation. After  the  sports  he  would  address  the  men;  talk  to  them, 
encourage  them  to  ask  questions.  It  occurred  to  Roy  that  he  had 
heard  something  of  the  sort  in  a  former  life:  and  behold  —  ar- 
rived on  the  ground — he  recognised  the  very  same  man  who  had 
been  howled  down  at  Delhi. 

He  greeted  him  warmly;  spoke  of  the  meeting;  listened  with 
immoved  countenance  to  lurid  speculations  about  the  disappear- 
ance of  Chandranath;  spoke,  himself,  to  the  men,  who  gave  him 
an  ovation;  and  by  the  time  it  was  over  had  almost  forgotten 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  351 

the  astounding  fact  that  he  was  virtually  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried .  .  . 

Driving  out  five  miles  to  Lahore  he  had  leisure  to  remember; 
to  realise  how  acutely  he  shrank  from  speaking  to  Rose  of  his 
mother.  Though  in  effect  his  promised  wife,  she  was  still  almost 
a  stranger;  and  the  sacredness  of  the  subject  —  the  imcertainty 
of  her  attitude  —  intensified  his  shrinking  to  a  painful  degree. 

She  had  asked  him  to  come  early,  that  they  might  have  a  few 
minutes  to  themselves;  and  for  once  he  was  not  unpunctual. 
He  found  her  alone;  and  at  first  sight  painful  shyness  over- 
whelmed him.  She  was  wearing  —  by  chance  or  design  —  the 
cream-and-gold  frock  of  the  imeventful  evening  that  had  turned 
the  scale;  and  she  came  forward  eagerly,  holding  out  her  hands. 

"Wonderful!  It's  not  a  dream!" 

He  took  her  hands  and  kissed  her,  almost  awkwardly.  "It 
still  feels  rather  like  a  dream,"  was  all  he  could  find  to  say;  —  and 
fancied  he  caught  a  flicker  of  amusement  in  her  eyes.  Was  she 
thinking  him  an  odd  kind  of  lover?  Even  last  night  he  had  not 
achieved  a  single  term  of  endearment  or  spoken  her  name. 

With  a  gracious  gesture  she  indicated  the  sofa;  and  they  sat 
down. 

"Well  —  what  have  you  been  doing  with  yourself  —  Roy?" 
she  asked,  palpably  to  put  him  at  ease.  "It's  a  delightful  name. 
Royal?" 

"No  —  LeRoy.  Some  Norman  ancestor." 

"The  King!"  She  saluted,  sitting  upright;  laughter  and  ten- 
derness in  her  eyes. 

At  that  he  slipped  an  arm  round  her  and  held  her  close  against 
him.  Then,  releasing  her,  he  plunged  into  fluent  talk  about  the 
afternoon's  events  and  his  accepted  offer  of  service,  if  need  arose 
—  till  Mrs.  Elton,  resplendent  in  flame-coloured  brocade,- surged 
into  the  room. 

It  was  a  purely  civil  dinner;  not  Hayes,  to  Roy's  relief.  Di- 
rectly it  was  over,  the  bridge-players  disappeared;  Mr.  Elton 
was  called  away  —  an  Indian  gentleman  to  see  him  on  urgent 
business;  and  they  two,  left  alone  again,  wandered  out  into 


352  FAR  TO  SEEK 

the  verandah.  By  this  time  her  beauty  and  his  masailine  pos- 
sessive instinct  had  more  or  less  righted  things;  and  now,  her 
nearness  in  the  rose-scented  dark  rekindled  his  fervour  of  last 
night. 

Without  a  word  he  turned  and  took  her  in  his  arms;  kissing 
her  again  and  again. 

*'  '  Rose  of  all  roses !  Rose  of  all  the  world !  *  "he  said  in  her  ear. 
Whereat  she  kissed  him  of  her  own  accord;  at  the  same  time 
gently  holding  him  away. 

"Have  mercy  —  a  little!  If  you  crush  roses  too  hard,  their 
petals  drop  off!" 

"Darling  —  I'm  sorry!"  —  The  great  word  was  out  at  last; 
and  he  felt  quaintly  relieved. 

"You  needn't  be!  It's  only .  .  ,  you're  such  a  vehement 
lover.  And  vehemence  is  said  —  not  to  last! " 

The  words  startled  him.  "You  try  me." 

"How?  An  extra  long  engagement?" 

"N-no.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that." 

"Well  —  we've  got  to  think  —  haven't  we?  —  to  talk  prac- 
tical poUtics!" 

"Rather  not.  I  bar  politics  —  practical  or  Utopian!" 

She  laughed.  There  was  happiness  in  her  laugh,  and  tender- 
ness and  an  under-note  of  triumph.  "You're  delicious!  So 
ardent,  yet  so  absurdly  detached  from  the  dull,  plodding  things 
that  make  up  common  life.  Come  —  let's  stroll.  The  verandah 
breathes  heat  like  a  benevolent  dragon!" 

They  strolled  in  the  cool  darkness  under  drooping  boughs, 
through  which  a  star  flickered  here  and  there.  He  refrained  from 
putting  an  arm  round  her;  and  was  rewarded  by  her  slipping  a 
hand  under  his  elbow. 

"  Shall  it  —  be  a  Simla  wedding?  "  she  asked  in  her  caressing 
voice.  "About  the  middle  of  the  season?  June?" 

"June?  Yes.  When  I  get  back  from  Gilgit?" 

"But  —  my  dear!  You're  not  going  to  disappear  for  two 
whole  months?  " 

"I'm  afraid  so.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  But  I  can't  go  back  on 
Lance." 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  353 

"Oh  — Lance!" 

He  heard  her  teeth  click  on  the  word.  Perhaps  she  had  merely 
echoed  it. 

"Yes:  a  very  old  engagement.  And  —  frankly  —  I'm  keen." 

"Oh  —  very  well."  Her  hand  slipped  from  his  arm.  "And 
when  you've  fulfilled  your  prior  engagement,  you  can  perhaps 
find  time  —  to  marry  me?  " 

"Darling  —  don't  take  it  that  way,"  he  pleaded. 

"Well,  I  did  suppose  I  was  going  to  be  a  shade  more  important 
than  —  your  Lance.  But  we  won't  spoil  things  by  squabbling." 

Impulsively  he  drew  her  forward  and  kissed  her:  and  this  time 
he  kept  an  arm  around  her  as  they  moved  on.  He  must  speak — 
soon.  But  he  wanted  a  natural  opening:  not  to  drag  it  in  by  the 
hair. 

"And  after  the  honeymoon  —  Home?"  she  asked,  following 
up  her  absorbing  train  of  thought. 

"Yes  —  I  think  so.  It's  about  time." 

She  let  out  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "I'm  glad  it's  not  India. 
And  yet  —  the  life  out  here  gets  a  hold,  like  dram-drinking.  One 
feels  as  if  perpetual,  unadulterated  England  might  be  just  a 
trifle  —  dull.  But  of  course,  I  know  nothing  about  your  home, 
Roy,  except  a  vague  rumoiur  that  your  father  is  a  Baronet  with 
a  lovely  place  in  Sussex." .. 

"No:  Surrey,"  said  Roy  —  and  his  throat  contracted. 
Clearly  the  moment  had  come.  "My  father's  not  only  a  Baronet. 
He's  a  rather  famous  artist  —  Sir  Nevil  Sinclair.  Perhaps 
you've  heard  the  name?" 

She  wrinkled  her  brows.  "N-nc  — You  see  we  do  live  in 
blinkers!  What's  his  line?" 

"Mostly  Indian  subjects  —  " 

"Oh  —  the  Ramaydna  man?  I  remember  —  1  did  see  a,  lovely 
thing  of  his  before  I  came  out  here.  But  then  —  ?  "  She  stood 
still  and  drew  away  from  him.  "One  heard  he  had  married  ..." 

"Yes.  He  married  a  beautiful  high-caste  Indian  girl,"  said 
Roy,  low  and  steadily.  "My  mother  —  " 

"Your  — mother— ?" 

He  could  scarcely  see  her  face;  but  he  felt  all  through  him  the 


354  FAR  TO  SEEK 

shock  of  the  disclosure;  realised,  with  a  sudden  furious  resent- 
ment, that  she  was  seeing  his  adored  mother  simply  as  a  stimi- 
bling-block  .  .  . 

It  was  as  if  a  chasm  had  opened  between  them  —  a  chasm  as 
wide  as  the  East  is  from  the  West.  Those  few  seconds  of  elo- 
quent silence  seemed  interminable.  It  was  she  who  spoke. 

"  Didn't  it  strike  you  that  I  had  —  the  right  to  know  this  .  .  . 
before.  .  .?" 

The  implied  reproach  smote  him  sharply;  but  how  could  he 
confess  to  her  —  standing  there  in  her  queenly  assurance  —  the 
impromptu  nature  of  last  night's  proceedings? 

"Well,  I  —  I'm  telling  you  now,"  he  stammered.  "Last  night 
I  simply  —  didn't  think.  And  before .  .  .  the  fact  is  ...  I 
can^t  talk  of  her,  except  to  those  who  knew  her  .  .  .  who  un- 
derstand ..." 

"You  mean  —  is  she  —  not  alive?" 

"No.  The  War  killed  her  —  instead  of  killing  me." 

Her  hand  closed  on  his  with  a  mute  assurance  of  sympathy. 
If  they  could  only  leave  it  so!  But  —  her  people  .  .  .  ? 

"You  must  try  and  talk  of  her  to  me,  Roy,"  she  urged, 
gently  but  inexorably.  "Was  it  —  out  here?" 

"No.  In  France.  They  came  out  for  a  visit  when  I  was  six. 
I've  known  nothing  of  India  till  now  —  except  through  her." 

"But  —  since  you  came  out,  hasn't  it  struck  you  that .  .. 
Anglo-Indians  feel  rather  strongly  .  .  .  ?" 

"I  don't  know  —  and  I  didn't  care  a  rap  what  they  felt!" 
he  flung  out  with  sudden  warmth.  "Now,  of  course  —  I  do  care. 
But ...  to  suppose  she  could  .  .  .  stand  in  my  way  seems 
an  insult  to  her.  If  you^re  one  of  the  people  who  feel  strongly  .  .  . 
of  course  .  .  .  there's  an  end  of  it.  You're  free." 

"Free?  Roy  —  don't  you  realise.  .  .  I  care?  You've  made 
me  care." 

"I  —  made  you?" 

"Yes;  simply  by  being  what  you  are;  so  gifted,  so  detached 
...  so  different  from  the  others  .  .  .  the  Service  pattern  ..." 

"Oh,  yes  —  in  a  way.  .  .  I'm  diflFerent."  —  Strange  how 
little  it  moved  him,  jusc  then,  her  frank  avowal,  her  praise.  — 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  355 

"And  now  you  know  —  why.  I  'm  sorry  if  it  upsets  you.  But 
I  can't  have  .  .  .  that  side  of  me  accepted  ...  on  suffer- 
ance —  " 

To  his  greater  amazement  she  leaned  forward  cind  kissed  him 
gently  deliberately,  on  the  mouth. 

"  Will  that  stop  you  —  saying  such  things? "  There  was  re- 
pressed passion  in  her  low  tone.  "I'm  not  accepting  .  .  .  any 
of  you  on  sufferance.  And,  really,  you're  not  a  bit  like  .  .  . 
not  the  same ..." 

*'No!"  She  smiled  at  the  fierce  monosyllable.  "All  that  lot  — 
/  jthe  poor  devils  you  despise  —  are  mostly  made  from  the  wrong 
'  '  sort  of  both  races  —  in  point  of  breeding,  I  mean.  And  that's  a 
supreme  point,  in  spite  of  the  twaddle  that's  talked  about  equal- 
ity. Women  of  good  family.  East  or  West,  don't  intermarry 
much.  And  quite  right  too.  I'm  proud  of  my  share  of  India. 
But  I  think,  on  principle,  it's  a  great  mistake ..." 

"Yes  —  yes.  That's  how  /  feel.  I'm  not  rabid.  It's  not  my 
way.  But ...  I  suppose  you  know,  Roy,  that ...  on  this 
subject,  many  Anglo-Indians  are ..." 

"  You  mean  —  your  people?  " 

"Well  —  I  don't  know  about  the  Pater.  He's  built  on  large 
lines,  outside  and  in.  But  Mother's  only  large  to  the  naked  eye;  . 
and  she's  Anglo-Indian  to  the  bone."  ^ 

"You  think  .  .  .  she'll  raise  objections?" 

"  She  won't  get  the  chance.  It's  my  affair  —  not  hers.  There'd 
be  arguments,  at  the  very  least.  She  tramples  tactlessly.  And 
it's  plain  you're  abnormally  sensitive;  and  rather  fierce  imder 
your  gentleness  —  ! " 

"But,  Rose  —  I  must  speak.  I  refuse  to  treat  —  my  mother 
as  if  she  was  —  a  family  skeleton  —  " 

"No  — not  that,"  she  soothed  him  with  voice  and  gesture. 
"Of  course  they  shall  know  — later  on.  It's  only... I 
couldn't  bear  any  jar  at  the  start.  You  might,  Roy  —  out  of 
consideration  for  me.  It  would  be  quite  simple.  You  need  only 
say,  just  now,  that  your  father  is  a  widower.  It  isn't  as  if  — 
she  was  alive  —  " 

The  words  staggered  him  like  a  blow.  With  an  incoherent 


356  FAR  TO  SEEK 

exclamation  he  swung  round  and  walked  quickly  away  from  her 
towards  the  house,  his  blood  tingling  in  a  manner  altogether 
diflferent  from  last  night.  Had  she  not  been  a  woman,  he  could 
have  knocked  her  down. 

Dismayed  and  startled,  she  hurried  after  him.  "Roy,  my 
dear  —  dearest,"  she  called  softly.  But  he  did  not  heed.  She 
overtook  him,  however,  and  caught  his  arm  with  both  hands 
forcing  him  to  stop. 

"Darling  —  forgive  me,"  she  murmured,  her  face  appealingly 
dose  to  his.  "I  didn't  mean  —  I  was  only  trying  to  ease  things 
for  you,  a  little,  you  quiverful  of  sensibilities." 

He  had  been  a  fakir,  past  saving,  could  he  have  withstood 
her  in  that  vein.  Her  nearness,  her  tenderness  revived  the  mood 
of  sheer  bewitchment,  when  he  could  think  of  nothing,  desire 
nothing  but  her.  She  had  a  genius  for  inducing  that  mood  in 
men;  and  Roy's  virginal  passion,  once  aroused,  was  stronger 
than  he  knew.  With  his  arms  round  her,  his  heart  against  hers, 
it  was  humanly  impossible  to  wish  her  other  than  she  was  — 
other  than  his  own.  Words  failed.  He  simply  clung  to  her,  in  a 
kind  of  diunb  desperation  to  which  she  had  not  the  key. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said  at  last,  "I'll  tell  you  more  —  show  you 
her  picture." 

And,  unHke  Aruna,  she  had  no  inkling  of  all  that  those  few 
words  implied. 


Chapter  VIII 

The  patience  of  the  British  is  as  long  as  a  summer* s  day; 
but  the  arm  of  the  British  is  as  long  as  a  winter's  night. 

Pathan  Saying 

They  parted  on  the  understanding  that  Roy  would  come  in  on 
Sunday  and  take  the  official  plunge.  Instead,  to  his  shameless 
relief,  he  found  the  squadron  detailed  to  bivouac  all  day  in  the 
Gol  Bagh,  and  available  at  short  notice.  It  gave  him  a  curious 
thrill  to  open  his  camphor-drenched  imiform  case  —  left  behind 
with  Lance  —  and  unearth  the  familiar  khaki  of  Kohdt  and  Mes- 
pot  days;  to  ride  out  with  his  men,  in  the  cool  of  early  morning, 
to  the  gardens  at  the  far  end  of  Lahore.  The  familiar  words  of 
command,  the  rhythmic  clatter  of  hoofs,  were  music  in  his  ears. 
A  thousand  pities  he  was  not  free  to  join  the  Indian  Army. 
But,  in  any  case,  there  was  Rose.  There  would  always  be  Rose 
now.  And  he  had  an  inkling  that  their  angle  of  vision  was  by 
no  means  identical .  .  . 

The  voice  of  Lance  shouting  an  order  dispelled  his  brown 
study;  and  Rose  —  beautiful,  desirable,  but  profoundly  dis- 
turbing —  did  not  intrude  again. 

Arrived  in  the  gardens,  they  picketed  the  horses  and  disposed 
themselves  under  the  trees  to  await  events.  The  heat  increased, 
and  the  flies,  and  the  eternal  clamour  of  crows;  and  it  was  near- 
ing  noon  before  their  ears  caught  a  far-off  sound  —  an  unmis- 
takeable  hmn  rising  to  a  roar. 

"Thought  so,"  said  Lance:  and  flung  a  word  of  command  to 
his  men. 

A  clatter  of  hoofs  heralded  arrivals:  —  Elton  and  the  Superin- 
tendent of  Police  with  orders  for  an  immediate  advance.  A  huge 
mob,  headed  by  students,  was  pouring  along  the  Circular  Road. 
The  police  were  powerless  to  hold  or  turn  them;  and  at  all  costs 
they  must  be  prevented  from  debouching  on  to  the  Mall. 

It  was  brisk  work;  but  the  squadron  reached  the  critical  cor- 
ner just  in  time. 


358  FAR  TO  SEEK 

A  sight  to  catch  the  breath  and  quicken  the  pulses  —  that  surg- 
ing sea  of  black  heads  —  uncovered  in  token  of  mourning; 
that  forest  of  arms,  beating  the  air  to  a  deafening  chorus  of  ortho- 
dox lamentation;  while  a  portrait  of  Ghandi,  on  a  black  banner, 
swayed  uncertainly  in  the  midst. 

A  handful  of  police  shouting  and  struggling  with  the  foremost 
ranks  were  being  swept  resistlessly  back  towards  the  Mall,  the 
main  artery  of  Lahore;  and  a  British  police  officer  on  horse- 
back was  sharing  the  same  fate.  Clearly  nothing  would  check 
them  save  that  formidable  barrier  of  cavalry  and  armoured 
cars. 

At  sight  of  it  they  halted;  but  disperse  and  return  they  would 
not.  They  haggled;  they  imposed  impossible  conditions;  they 
drowned  official  parleyings  in  shouts  and  yells. 

For  close  on  two  hours  in  the  blazing  sun  Lance  Desmond  and 
his  men  sat  patiently  in  their  saddles  —  machine  guns  in  posi- 
tion behind  them  —  while  the  Civil  Arm,  derided  and  defied, 
peacefully  persuaded  those  passively  resisting  thousands  that 
the  Mall  was  not  deemed  a  suitable  promenade  for  Lahore  citi- 
zens in  a  highly  processional  mood.  For  two  hours  the  human 
tide  swayed  this  way  and  that;  the  clamour  rose  and  fell;  till 
a  local  leader,  after  much  vain  speaking,  begged  the  loan  of  a 
horse  and  succeeded  in  heading  them  off  to  a  mass  meeting  at 
the  Bradlaugh  Hall.  And  the  cavalry,  dismissed,  trotted  back 
to  the  gardens,  to  remain  at  hand  till  sundown  in  case  of 
need. 

What  the  Indian  officers  and  men  thought  of  it  all,  who  shall 
guess?  What  Lance  Desmond  thought,  he  frankly  imparted  to 
Roy. 

"A  fine  exhibition  of  the  masterly  inactivity  touch!"  said  he 
with  a  twitch  of  his  hmnorous  lips.  "But  not  exactly  an  edifying 
show  for  our  men.  Wonder  what  my  old  Dad  would  think  of  it 
all?  You  bet  there'll  be  a  holy  rumpus  in  the  city  to-night." 

"And  then  —  ?"  mused  Roy,  his  imagination  leaping  ahead. 
"This  isn't  the  last  of  it." 

"The  last  of  it  —  will  be  bullets,  not  buckshot,"  said  Lance  in 
his  soldierly  wisdom.  "It's  the  only  argument  for  crowds.  The 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  359 

soft-sawder  lot  may  howl  'militarism.'  But  they're  Jolly  grateful 
for  a  dash  of  it  when  their  skins  are  touched.  It  takes  a  soldier 
of  the  right  sort  to  know  just  when  a  dash  of  cruelty  is  kindness 
—  and  the  reverse  —  in  deahng  with  backward  peoples;  and 
crowds,  of  any  colour,  are  the  backwardest  peoples  going!  It 
would  be  just  as  well  to  get  the  women  safely  off  the  scene." 

He  looked  straight  at  Roy,  whose  sensitive  soul  winced  at  the 
impact  of  his  thought.  Since  their  brief  talk  the  fact  of  the  en- 
gagement had  been  tacitly  accepted  —  tacitly  ignored.  Lance 
had  a  positive  genius  for  tJiat  sort  of  thing;  and  in  this  case  it 
was  a  Godsend  to  Roy. 

"Quite  so,"  he  agreed,  returning  the  look. 

"Well  —  you're  in  a  position  to  suggest  it." 

"I'm  not  sure  if  it  would  be  exactly  appreciated.  But  I'll 
have  a  shot  at  it  to-morrow." 

The  city,  that  night,  duly  enjoyed  its  *holy  rumpus.*  But  on 
Monday  morning  shops  were  open  again;  everything  as  nor- 
mal as  you  please;  and  the  cheerful  prophets  congratulated 
themselves  that  the  explosion  had  proved  a  damp  squib  after 
all. 

Foremost  among  these  was  Mr.  Talbot  Hayes,  whose  ineffable 
air  of  being  in  the  confidence  of  the  Almighty  —  not  to  mention 
the  whole  Hindu  Pantheon  —  was  balm  to  Mrs.  Elton  at  this 
terrifying  jimcture.  For  her  mountain  of  flesh  hid  a  mouse  of  a 
soul;  and  her  childhood  had  been  shadowed  by  tales  of  Mutiny 
horrors!  With  her  it  was  almost  an  obsession.  The  least  unusual 
uproar  at  a  railway  station  or  holiday  excitement  in  the  bazaar 
sufficed  to  convince  her  that  the  hour  had  struck,  for  which  sub- 
consciously she  had  been  waiting  all  her  life. 

So  throughout  Simday  mommg  she  had  been  a  quivering  jelly 
of  fear;  positively  annoyed  with  Rose  for  her  serene  assurance 
that  'the  Pater  would  pull  it  off  all  right.'  She  had  never  quite 
fathomed  her  daughter's  faith  in  the  shy,  undistinguished  man  for 
whom  she  cherished  an  affection  secretly  tinged  with  contempt. 
In  this  case  it  was  justified.  He  had  returned  to  tiffin  quite 
imruffled;   had  vouchsafed  no  details,  expressed  no  opinions; 


36o  FAR  TO  SEEK 

simply  assured  her  she  need  not  worry.  They  had  a  strong  L.G. 
That  was  all. 

But  Authority,  in  the  person  of  Talbot  Hayes,  was  more  com- 
municative —  in  a  flatteringly  confidential  undertone.  A  long 
talk  with  him  had  cheered  her  considerably:  and  on  Monday  she 
was  still  further  cheered  by  a  piece  of  news  her  daughter  casually 
let  fall  at  breakfast,  between  the  poached  eggs  and  the  manna- 
lade. 

Rose  —  at  last  I  And  even  Gladys's  achievement  thrown  into 
the  shade!  Here  was  compensation  for  all  she  had  suffered  from 
the  girl's  distracting  habit  of  going  just  so  far  with  the  wrong 
man  as  to  give  her  palpitations.  She  had  felt  downright  nervous 
about  Major  Desmond.  For  Rose  never  gave  one  her  confidence. 
And  she  had  suffered  qualms  about  this  new,  unknown  young 
man.  But  what  matter  now?  To  your  right-minded  mother,  all's 
well  that  ends  in  the  Wedding  March  —  and  DebrettI  Most 
satisfactory  to  find  that  the  father  was  a  Baronet;  and  Mr. 
Sinclair  was  the  eldest  son  I  Could  anything  be  more  gratifying 
to  her  maternal  pride  in  this  beautiful,  diflacult  daughter  of  hers? 

Consequently  when  the  eldest  son  came  in  to  report  himself, 
all  that  inner  complacency  welled  up  and  flowed  over  him  in  a 
volume  of  maternal  effusion,  trying  enough  in  any  case;  and  to 
Roy  intolerable,  almost,  in  view  of  that  enforced  reservation 
that  might  altogether  change  her  tone. 

After  nearly  an  hour  of  it,  he  felt  so  battered  internally,  that 
he  reached  the  haven  of  his  own  room  feeling  thoroughly  out  of 
tune  with  the  whole  affair.  Yet  —  there  it  was.  And  no  man 
in  his  senses  could  break  with  a  girl  of  that  quality.  Besides,  his 
genuine  feeling  for  her  —  infatuation  apart  —  had  received  a 
distinct  stimulus  from  their  talk  about  his  mother  and  the  im- 
pression made  on  her  by  the  photograph  he  had  brought  with 
him,  as  promised.  And  if  Mrs.  Elton  was  a  Brobdingnagian 
thorn  on  the  stem  of  his  Rose,  the  D.C.'s  patent  pleasure  and 
affectionate  allusions  to  the  girl  atoned  for  a  good  deal. 

So,  instead  of  executing  a  'wobble'  of  the  first  magnitude,  he 
proceeded  to  clinch  matters  by  writing  first  to  his  father,  then 
to  a  Calcutta  firm  of  jewellers  for  a  selection  of  rings. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  361 

But  he  wavered  badly  over  facing  the  ordeal  of  wholesale 
congratulations:  —  the  chaff  of  the  men;  the  reiterate  inanities 
of  the  women. 

On  Tuesday  Rose  warned  him  that  her  mother  was  dying  to 
give  a  dinner,  to  invite  certain  rival  mothers  and  announce  her 
news  with  due  eclat. 

"Hand  us  round,  in  fact,"  she  added  serenely,  "with  the  chocs 
and  Elvas  plimis!  —  No!  Don't  flare  up! "  Her  fingers  caressed 
the  back  of  his  hand.  "In  mercy  to  you,  I  diplomatically  sat 
down  upon  the  idea,  and  remained  seated  till  it  was  extinct. 
So  you're  saved  —  by  your  affianced  wife,  whom  you  don't  seem 
in  a  frantic  hurry  to  acknowledge ..." 

He  caught  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  passionately.  "You 
know  it's  not  that  —  " 

"  Yes,  /  know  .  .  .  you're  just  terror-struck  of  all  those  women. 
But  if  you  will  do  these  things,  you  must  stand  up  to  the 
consequences  —  like  a  man." 

He  jerked  up  his  head.  "No  fear.  We'll  say  to-morrow,  or 
Thursday." 

"I'U  be  merciful  and  say  Thursday.  It's  to  be  announced 
this  afternoon.  Have  you  mentioned  it  —  to  anyone?  " 

"Only  to  Lance." 

A  small  sound  between  her  teeth  made  him  turn  quickly. 

"Anything  hurt  you?" 

"You've  quick  ears!  Only  a  pin-prick."  She  explored  her 
blouse  for  the  offending  pin.  "Do  you  tell  each  other  everything 
—  you  two?  " 

"Pretty  well  —  as  men  go." 

"You're  a  wonderful  pair." 

She  sighed  and  was  silent  a  moment.  Then :  "  Shall  it  be  a  ride 
on  Thursday?  "  she  asked,  giving  his  arm  a  small  squeeze. 

"Rather.  There  are  Brigade  Sports;  but  I  could  cry  off. 
We'll  take  our  tea  out  to  Shadera;  have  a  peaceful  time  there; 
and  finish  up  at  the  Hall." 

So  it  was  arranged:  and  so  it  befell,  though  not  exactly  ac- 
cording to  design. 


362  FAR  TO  SEEK 

On  Thursday  they  rode  leisurely  out  through  the  heat  and 
dusty  haze;  away  from  bungalows  and  the  watered  Mall, 
through  a  village  aUve  with  shrill  women,  naked  babies,  and 
officious  pariahs,  who  kept  Terry  furiously  occupied;  on  past 
the  city,  over  the  bridge  of  boats  that  spans  the  Ravi,  till  they 
came  to  the  green,  secluded  garden  where  the  Emperor  Jehan- 
gir  sleeps,  heedless  of  infidels  who,  generation  after  generation, 
have  picnicked  and  made  love  in  the  sacred  precincts  of  his  tomb. 

Arrived  at  the  gardens,  they  tethered  the  horses;  drank  ther- 
mos tea  and  ate  sugared  cakes,  sitting  on  the  wide  wall  that 
looked  across  the  river  and  the  plain  to  the  dim,  huddled  city 
beyond:  and  Roy  talked  of  Bramleigh  Beeches  in  April,  till 
he  felt  homesick  for  primroses  and  the  cuckoo  and  the  smell 
of  mown  grass;  while  before  his  actual  eyes  the  terrible  sun  of 
India  hung  suspended  in  the  haze  like  a  platter  of  molten 
brass,  till  the  turning  earth,  setthng  to  sleep,  shouldered  it  al- 
most out  of  sight. 

That  brought  them  back  to  realities. 

"We  must  scoot,"  said  Roy.  "It'll  be  dark;  and  there's  only 
a  slip  of  a  moon." 

"It's  been  delicious!"  she  sighed;  and  they  kissed  mutually; 
a  lingering  kiss. 

Then  they  were  off,  racing  the  swift-footed  dusk  .  .  . 

Skirting  the  city,  they  noticed  scurrying  groups  of  figures 
shoutfng  to  each  other  as  they  ran;  and  the  next  instant  Roy's 
ear  caught  the  ominous  hum  of  Sunday  morning. 

"Good  God!  They're  out  again!  Hi  — you!  What's  the 
tamashaf  "  he  called  to  the  nearest  group. 

They  responded  with  wild  gestures  and  fled  on.  But  one  lagged 
a  little,  being  fat  and  scant  of  breath;  and  Roy  shouted  again. 
This  time  the  note  of  command  took  effect. 

"Where  are  you  all  running?  Is  there  trouble?"  he  asked. 

"Big  trouble.  Sahib  —  Amritsar,"  answered  the  fleshly  one, 
wiping  the  dusty  sweat  from  his  forehead  and  shaking  it  imcere- 
moniously  from  his  finger-tips.  "Word  comes  that  our  leaders 
are  taken.  Mahatma  Ghandi  also.  The  people  are  burning  and 
looting;  Bank-g^ar,  Town  Hall  ghnr;  killing  many  Sahibs  and 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  363 

one  Memsahib.  Hai!  Hai!  Now  there  will  be  hartal  again. 
Committee  ki  raj.  No  food;  no  work,  Hai!  Hai!  Ghandikijail" 

"  Confound  the  man! "  muttered  Roy,  not  referring  to  the  woe- 
begone laggard.  "Look  here,  Rose,  if  they're  w^edged  up  near 
Anarkalli,  we  must  change  our  route.  I  expect  the  squadron's 
out  and  I  ought  to  be  with  it  —  " 

"Thank  God  you're  not.  It's  quite  bad  enough  —  "  She  set 
her  teeth  sharply.  "Oh,  come  on!" 

Back  they  sped,  at  a  hand  gallop,  past  the  Fort  and  the  Bad- 
shahi  Mosque;  then,  neck  and  neck  down  the  long,  straight  road, 
that  vibrant  roar  growing  louder  with  every  stride.  Near  the 
church  they  slackened  speed.  The  noise  had  become  terrific, 
like  a  hundred  electric  engines  at  full  pressure;  and  there  was 
more  than  excitement  in  it  —  there  was  fury. 

"Simday  was  a  treat  to  this,"  remarked  Roy.  "We  shan't 
get  on  to  the  Mall." 

"We  can  go  through  Mozung,"  said  Rose  coolly.  "But  I 
want  to  see — as  far  as  one  can.  The  Pater's  bound  to  be  there. ' ' 

Roy,  while  admiring  her  coolness,  detected  beneath  it  a  re- 
pressed intensity,  very  unlike  her;  but  his  own  urgent  sensations 
left  no  room  for  curiosity;  and  round  the  next  swerve  they  drew 
rein  in  full  view  of  a  sight  that  neither  woidd  forget  whUe  they 
lived. ' 

The  wide  road,  stretching  away  to  the  Lahore  gate,  was  densely 
packed  with  a  shouting,  gesticulating  hiunan  barrier;  bobbing 
heads  and  lifted  arms,  hurling  any  missile  that  came  to  hand  — 
stones,  bricks,  lumps  of  refuse  —  at  the  courageous  few  who  held 
them  in  check. 

Cavalry  and  police,  as  on  Sunday,  blocked  the  tmning  into 
the  Mall;  and  Roy  instantly  recognized  the  silhouette  of  Lance, 
sitting  erect  and  rigid,  doubtless  thinking  imutterable  things. 

Low  roofs  of  buildings  near  the  road  were  thronged  with  shad- 
owy figures,  nmning,  yelling,  hiu-ling  bricks  and  mud  from  a 
half-demoUshed  shop  near  by.  Two  mounted  police  officers 
made  abortive  attempts  to  get  a  hearing:  and  a  solitary  Indian, 
perched  on  an  electric  standard  well  above  the  congested  mass, 
vainly  harangued  and  fluttered  a  white  scarf  as  signal  of  pacific 


364  FAR  TO  SEEK 

intentions.  Doubtless  one  of  their  'leaders'  again  making  fran- 
tic, belated  efforts  to  stem  the  torrent  that  he  and  his  kind  had 
let  loose. 

And  the  nightmare  effect  of  the  scene  was  intensified  by  the 
oncoming  dusk;  by  the  flare  of  a  single  torch  hoisted  on  a  pole. 
It  waved  purposefully;  and  its  objective  was  clear  to  Roy  — 
the  electric  supply  wires. 

"That  brute  there's  trying  to  cut  off  the  light!"  he  exclaimed, 
turning  sharply  in  the  saddle,  only  to  find  that  she  had  not  even 
heard  him. 

She  sat  stone  still,  her  face  set  and  strained,  as  he  had  seen  it 
after  the  Tournament.  "  There  he  is,"  she  murmured:  the  words 
a  mere  movement  of  her  lips. 

He  hated  to  see  her  look  like  that:  and  putting  out  a  hand,  he 
touched  her  arm. 

"I  don't  see  him,"  he  said,  answering  her  murmur.  "He'll  be 
coming,  though.  Not  nervous  are  you?  " 

She  started  at  his  touch  —  shrank  from  it,  almost:  or  so  he 
fancied.  "Nervous?  No  —  furious!"  Her  low  tone  was  as  tense 
as  her  whole  attitude.  "Mud  and  stones!  Good  Heavens! 
Why  don't  ih^y  shootf" 

"They  will  —  at  a  pinch,"  Roy  assured  her,  feeling  oddly 
rebuffed  and  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  stranger.  "Stay  here. 
Don't  stir.  I'll  glean  a  few  details  from  one  of  our  outlying 
sowars." 

The  nearest  man  available  happened  to  be  a  Pathan.  Recog- 
nising Roy  he  saluted,  a  fighting  gleam  in  his  eyes.  "PFaA, 
wah!  Sahib!  This  is  not  man's  work,  to  sit  staring  while  these 
throw  words  to  a  pack  of  mad  jackals.  On  the  Border  we  say, 
pdili  Idth;  pechi  hdat}  That  would  soon  make  an  end  of  this 
devil's  noise." 

"True  talk,"  said  Roy,  secretly  approving  the  man's  rough 
wisdom.  "How  long  has  it  been  going  on?  " 

"We  came  late,  Sahib,  because  of  the  sports;  but  these  have 
been  nearly  one  hour.  Once  the  police-log  gave  buckshot  to  those 
on  the  roofs.  How  much  use  —  the  Sahib  can  see.  Now  they  have 
*  First  a  blow,  then  a  word. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  365 

sent  a  sowar  for  the  Dep'ty  Sahib.  But  these  would  not  hear  the 
Lat  Sahib  himself.  One  match  will  Hght  such  a  bonfire;  but  a 
hundred  buckets  will  not  put  it  out." 

Roy  assented,  ruefully  enough.  "It  is  true  there  has  been  big 
trouble  at  Amritsar  —  burning  and  killing?  " 

"Wah!  Waht  Shurrum  kiebhdt?  Because  he  who  made  all 
the  trouble  may  not  come  into  the  Pimjab,  Sahibs  who  have  no 
concern  —  are  killed  —  " 

An  intensified  uproar  drew  their  eyes  back  to  the  mob. 

It  was  swaying  ominously  forward  with  yellings  and  pranc- 
ings,  with  renewed  showers  of  bricks  and  stones. 

"Thus  they  welcome  the  Dep'ty  Sahib,"  remarked  Sher 
Khan  with  grim  irony. 

It  was  true.  No  mistaking  the  bulky  figure  on  horseback, 
alone  in  the  forefront  of  the  throng,  trying  vainly  to  make  him- 
self heard.  Still  he  pressed  forward,  urging,  commanding; 
missiles  hurtling  round  him.  Luckily  the  aim  was  poor  and 
only  one  took  effect. 

A  voice  shouted:  "You  had  better  come  back,  sir." 

He  halted.  There  was  a  fierce  forward  rush.  Large  groups  of 
people  sat  down  in  flat  defiance;  and  again  Rose  broke  out  with 
her  repressed  intensity:  "It's  madness!  Why  on  earth  don't 
they  sho6t?" 

"The  notion  is  —  to  give  the  beggars  every  chance,"  urged 
Roy.  "After  all,  they've  been  artificially  worked  up.  Its  the 
men  behind  —  pulling  the  strings  —  who  are  to  blame  —  " 

"I  don't  care  who^s,  to  blame.  They're  as  dangerous  as  wild 
beasts."  She  did  not  even  look  at  him.  Her  eyes,  her  mind  were 
centred  on  that  weird,  unforgettable  scene.  "And  our  people 
simply  sitting  there  being  pelted  with  bricks  and  stones .  .  . 
The  Pater  .  .  .  Lance  ..." 

She  caught  her  breath  and  drew  in  her  lip.  Roy  gave  her  a 
quick  look.  That  was  the  second  time;  and  she  did  not  even 
seem  aware  of  it. 

"Yes.  It's  a  detestable  position,  but  it's  not  of  their  making," 
he  agreed,  adding  briskly:   "Come  along,  now,  Rose.  It's  get- 
'  Shameful  talk. 


366  FAR  TO  SEEK 

ting  dark;  and  I  ought  to  be  in  cantonments.  There'll  be  pick- 
ets all  over  the  place  —  after  this.  I'll  see  you  safe  to  the  Hall; 
then  gallop  off." 
Her  lips  twitched  in  a  half  smile.  "Shirking  congrats  again?" 
"Oh,  drop  it!  I'd  clean  forgotten.  I'll  conduct  you  right  in  — 
and  chance  congrats.  But  they'll  be  too  full  of  other  things  to- 
night. Scared  to  death,  some  of  them." 

"Mother,  for  one.  I  never  thought  of  her.  Come  along." 
For  new-made  lovers  their  tone  and  bearing  were  oddly  de- 
tached, almost  brusque.  They  had  gone  some  distance  before 
they  heard  shots  behind  them. 

"  Thank  goodness !  At  last !  I  hope  it  hurt  some  of  them  badly," 
Rose  broke  out  with  unusual  warmth.  She  was  rather  un- 
usual altogether  this  evening.  "Really,  it  would  serve  them 
right  —  as  Mr.  Hayes  says  —  if  we  did  clear  out,  lock,  stock, 
and  barrel,  and  leave  their  precious  country  to  be  scrambled 
for  by  others  of  a  very  different  jdt  from  the  stupid,  splendid 
British.  I'm  glad  /'m  going,  an5rway.  I've  never  felt  in  sympa- 
thy. And  now,  after  aU  this  .  .  .  and  Amritsar  ...  I  simply 
couldn't  ..." 

She  broke  off  in  mid-career;  flicked  her  pony's  flanks  and  set 
off  at  a  brisk  canter. 

Pause  and  action  could  have  but  one  meaning.  "She's  realis- 
ing —  "  thought  Roy,  cantering  after,  pain  and  anger  mingled 
in  his  heart.  At  such  a  moment,  he  admitted,  her  outburst  was 
not  unnatural.  But  to  him  it  was,  none  the  less,  intolerable. 
The  trouble  was,  he  could  say  nothing,  lest  he  say  too  much. 
At  the  Lawrence  Hall  they  foimd  half  a  company  of  British 
soldiers  on  guard;  producing,  by  their  mere  presence,  that  sense 
of  security  which  radiates  from  the  policeman  and  the  soldier 
when  the  sohd  ground  fails  imderfoot. 

Within  doors  the  atmosphere  was  electrical  with  excitement 
and  uncertainty.  Orders  had  been  received  that,  in  case  of  mat- 
ters taking  a  serious  turn,  the  hundred  or  so  of  EngHsh  women 
and  children  gathered  at  the  Hall  would  be  removed  under  es- 
cort to  Government  House.  No  one  was  dancing.  Everyone  was 
talking.  The  wildest  rumours  were  current.  At  a  crisis  the  cur- 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  367 

tains  of  convention  are  rent  and  the  inner  self  peers  through, 
sometimes  revealing'  the  face  of  a  stranger.  While  the  imposing 
Mrs.  Elton  quivered  inwardly,  Mrs,  Ranyard  —  for  all  h- 
'creeps'  and  her  fluffiness  —  knew  no  flicker  of  fear.  In  any  case 
there  were  few  who  would  confess  to  it,  though  it  gnawed  at 
their  vitals;  and  Roy's  quick  eye  noted  that,  among  the  women, 
as  a  whole,  the  light-hearted  courage  of  Anglo-India  prevailed. 
It  gave  him  a  sharp  inner  tweak  to  look  at  them  all  and  remem- 
ber that  nightmare  of  seething,  yelling  rebels  at  AnarkalU.  He 
wished  to  God  Rose  had  not  seen  it  too.  It  was  the  kind  of  thing 
that  would  stick  in  the  memory. 

On  their  appearance  in  the  Hall,  Mrs.  Elton  deserted  a  voluble 
group  and  bore  down  upon  them,  flustered  and  perspiring. 

"My  darling  girl!  Thank  God!  I've  been  in  a  fever!"  she  cried, 
and  would  have  engulfed  her  stately  daughter,  before  them  all, 
but  that  Rose  put  out  a  deterring  hand. 

"I  was  afraid  you'd  be  upset  —  so  we  hurried,"  she  said  se- 
renely; not  the  Rose  of  Anarkalli,  by  any  means.  "But  we  were 
all  right  along  the  Mozung  road." 

That  *  we '  and  a  possessive  glance  —  the  merest  —  at  her  lover 
brought  down  upon  the  pair  a  small  shower  of  congratulations. 
Everyone  had  foreseen  it,  of  course,  but  it  was  so  delightful  to 
know ... 

After  the  sixth  infliction,  Roy  whispered  in  her  ear,  "I say,  I 
can't  stand  any  more.  And  it's  high  time  I  was  off." 

"Poor  dear!  'When  duty  calls  .  .  .'?"  Her  cool  tone  was 
not  unsympathetic.  "I'll  let  you  o£E  the  rest." 

She  came  out  with  him,  and  they  stood  together  a  moment  in 
the  darkness  imder  the  portico. 

"I  shall  dream  to-night,  Roy,"  she  said  gravely.  "And  we 
may  not  even  see  the  Pater.  He's  taken  up  his  abode  in  the  Tele- 
graph Office.  Mother  will  want  to  bolt.  I  can  see  it  in  her  eye!" 

"Well,  she's  right.  You  ought  all  to  be  cleared  out  of  this, 
instanter." 

"Are  you  —  so  keen?" 

"Of  course  not."  His  tone  was  more  impatient  than  lov- 
erly. "I'm  only  keen  to  feel  —  you're  safe." 


368  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Oh  —  safe!"  she  sighed.  ''Is  one  —  anywhere  —  ever?" 

"No,"  he  countered  with  unexpected  vigour.  "Or  life  would- 
n't be  worth  living.  There  are  degrees  of  unsafeness;  that's  all. 
It's  natural  —  isn't  it,  darUng?  —  I  should  want  to  feel  you're 
out  of  reach  of  that  crowd.  If  it  had  pushed  on  here,  and  to 
Government  House,  Amritsar  doings  would  have  been  thrown 
into  the  shade." 

She  shivered.  "It's  horrible  —  incredible!  I  suppose  one  has 
to  be  a  lifelong  Anglo-Indian  to  realise  quite  how  incredible  it 
feels  —  to  us." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  as  if  to  shield  her  from  the  memory 
of  it  all. 

"I'll  see  you  to-morrow?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course.  If  I  can  square  it.  But  we  shall  be  snowed  under 
with  emergency  orders.  I'U  send  a  note  in  any  case." 

"Take  care  of  yourself  —  on  my  account,"  she  commanded 
softly:  and  they  kissed. 

But  —  whether  fancy  or  fact?  —  Roy  had  an  under-sense  of 
mutual  constraint.  It  was  not  the  same  thing  at  all  as  that  last 
kiss  at  Shadera.  There  they  had  come  closer,  in  spirit,  than  ever 
yet.  Now  —  not  two  hours  later  —  the  thin  end  of  an  imseen 
wedge  seemed  to  be  stealthily  pressing  them  apart. 


Chapter  IX 

It  has  long  been  a  grave  question  whether  any  Government,  not  too  strong 
for  the  liberties  of  the  people,  can  be  strong  enough  to  maintain  its 
existence  in  great  emergencies. 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Back  in  cantonments  Roy  found  emergency  measures  in  full 
swing:  strong  detachments  being  rushed  to  all  vital  points, 
and  Brigade  Headquarters  moving  into  Lahore.  It  was  late 
before  Lance  returned,  tired  and  monosyllabic.  He  admitted 
they  had  mopped  things  up  a  bit  —  outside;  and  left  a  detach- 
ment in  support  of  the  police  guarding  the  Mall.  But  the  city 
was  in  open  rebellion.  No  white  man  could  safely  show  his  face 
there.  The  anti-British  poison,  instilled  without  let  or  hindrance, 
was  taking  violent  effect.  He'd  seen  enough  of  it  for  one  day. 
He  wanted  things  to  eat  and  drink  —  especially  drink.  'Things' 
were  produced:  and  afterwards  —  alone  with  Roy  in  their  b\m- 
galow — he  talked  more  freely —  in  no  optimistic  vein,  sworn  foe 
of  pessimism  though  he  was. 

"Sporadic  trouble?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  Look  at  the  way  they're 
going  for  lines  of  communication.  And  look  at  these  choice  frag- 
ments from  one  of  their  posters  I  pinched  off  a  police  inspector: 
'The  English  are  the  worst  lot  and  are  like  monkeys,  whose  de- 
ceit and  cunning  are  obvious  to  high  aind  low  .  .  .  Do  not  lose 
courage,  but  try  your  utmost  to  turn  these  men  away  from  your 
holy  country.'  Pretty  sentiments  —  eh?  Fact  is,  we're  up  against 
organised  rebellion." 

Roy  nodded.  "I  had  that  from  Dy^,  long  ago.  Paralysis 
of  movement  and  Government  is  their  game.  We  may  have  a 
job  to  regain  control  of  the  city." 

"Not  if  we  declare  martial  law,"  said  the  son  of  Theo  Des- 
mond with  a  kindling  eye.  "Of  course  I'm  only  a  soldier  —  and 
proud  of  it!  But  I've  more  than  a  nodding  acquaintance  with 
the  Punjabi.  He's  no  word-monger;  handier  with  his  Idlhi 
than  his  tongue.  If  you  stir  him  up,  he  hits  out.  And  I  don't 


370  FAR  TO  SEEK 

blame  him.  The  voluble  gentlemen  from  the  South  don't  realise 
the  inflammable  stuff  they're  playing  with  —  " 

"Perhaps  they  do,"  hazarded  Roy. 

"  'M  —  yes  —  perhaps.  But  the  one  on  the  electric  standard 
thisi  evening  didn't  exactly  achieve  a  star  turn!  —  You  saw  him, 
eh?"  He  looked  very  straight  at  Roy.  "I  noticed  you  —  hang- 
ing round  on  the  edge  of  things.  You  ought  to  have  gone  straight 
on. 

Roy  winced.  "We'd  heard  wild  rumours.  She  was  anxious 
about  the  D.C." 

Lance  nodded,  staring  at  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  "When  does  — 
Mrs.  Elton  make  a  move?" 

"The  first  possible  instant,  I  should  say,  from  the  look  of  her." 

"Good.  She's  on  the  right  tack,  for  once!  The  D.C.  deserves 
a  first-class  Birthday  Honour  —  and  may  possibly  wangle  an 
O.B.E.!  I'm  told  that  he  and  the  D.I.G.,  with  a  handful  of 
police,  pretty  well  saved  the  station  before  we  came  on  the  scene. 
It's  been  a  nearer  shave  than  one  cares  to  think  about.  —  And 
it's  not  over." 

They  sat  up  till  after  midnight  discussing  the  general  situation 

—  that  looked  blacker  every  hour.  And  till  long  after  midnight 
an  uproarious  mob  raged  through  the  city  and  Anarkalli;  only 
kept  from  breaking  all  bounds  by  the  tact  and  good-humour  of 
a  handful  of  cavalry  and  police;  men  of  their  own  race;  unshaken 
by  open  or  covert  attempts  to  suborn  their  loyalty:  —  a  minor 
detail  worth  putting  on  record. 

Friday  was  a  day  of  rumours.  While  the  city  continued 
furiously  to  rage,  reports  of  fresh  trouble  flowed  in  from  all  sides: 

—  further  terrible  details  from  Amritsar ;  rumours  that  the  Army 
and  the  police  were  being  tampered  with  and  expected  to  join 
the  mob;  serious  trouble  at  Ahmedabad  and  Lyallpur,  where 
seventy  British  women  and  children  were  herded,  in  one  bunga- 
low, till  they  could  safely  be  removed.  Everywhere  the  same 
tale;  stations  burned,  railways  wrecked,  wires  cut:  fresh  stories 
constantly  to  hand;  some  true,  some  wildly  exaggerated;  anger 
in  the  blood  of  the  men;  terror  in  the  hearts  of  the  women, 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  371 

longing  to  get  away,  yet  suddenly  afraid  of  trains  packed  with 
natives,  manned  by  natives,  who  might  be  perfectly  harmless; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  might  not  .  .  . 

It  was  as  Rose  had  said;  to  realise  the  significance  of  these 
things,  one  needed  to  have  spent  half  a  lifetime  in  that  other 
India,  in  the  good  days  when  peaceful,  loyal  masses  had  not  been 
galvanised  into  disaffection;  when  an  English  woman,  of  average 
nerve,  thought  nothing  of  travelling  alone  up  and  down  the 
country,  or  spending  a  week  alone  in  camp  —  if  needs  must  — 
secure  in  the  knowledge  that  —  even  in  a  disturbed  Frontier 
district  —  no  woman  would  ever  be  touched  or  treated  with  other 
than  unfailing  respect.  Yet  a  good  many  were  preparing  to  flit 
besides  Mrs.  Elton  and  Rose:  and  to  the  men  their  departure 
would  spell  relief;  not  least,  to  Roy  —  the  new-made  lover. 
Parting  would  be  a  wrench;  but  —  at  this  critical  moment, 
for  England  and  India  —  the  tug  two  ways  was  distinctly  a 
strain;  and  the  less  she  saw  of  it  all,  the  better  for  their  future 
chance  of  happiness.  He  felt  by  no  means  sure  it  had  not  been 
imperilled  already. 

But  the  exigencies  of  the  hour  left  no  room  for  vague  forebod- 
ings. Emergency  orders,  that  morning,  detailed  Lance  with  a 
detachment  for  the  railway  workshops,  where  passive  resisters 
were  actively  on  the  warpath.  Roy,  after  early  stables,  was 
despatched  with  another  party  to  strengthen  a  cavalry  picket 
near  the  Badshahi  Mosque,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  where 
things  might  be  lively  in  the  course  of  the  day. 

Passing  through  Lahore,  he  sent  his  sats  with  a  note  to  Rose; 
and,  on  reaching  the  Mosque,  he  found  things  lively  enough  al- 
ready. The  iron  raihngs,  roimd  the  main  gate  of  the  Fort,  were 
besieged  by  a  hooting,  roaring  mob,  belabouring  the  air  with 
Idlhis  and  axes  on  bamboo  poles;  rending  it  with  shouts  of  abuse, 
and  one  reiterate  cry:  "Kill  the  white  pigs,  brothers!  Kill! 
Kill!"  Again  and  again  they  stormed  the  railings;  frantically 
trying  to  pull  them  down  or  bear  them  down  by  sheer  weight  of 
nimibers  —  yelling  ceaselessly  the  while. 

"How  the  devil  can  they  keep  it  up?"  thought  Roy;  and 
sickened  to  think  how  few  of  his  own  kind  there  were  to  stand 


372  '  FAR  TO  SEEK 

between  the  English  women  and  children  in  Lahore  and  those 
hostile  tliousands.  Thank  God  there  remained  loyal  Indians, 
hundreds  of  them  —  as  in  Mutiny  days;  but  surely  a  few  rounds 
from  the  Fort,  just  then,  would  have  heartened  them  and  been 
distinctly  comforting  into  the  bargain. 

The  walls  were  manned  with  rifles  and  Lewis  guns;  and  at 
times  things  looked  distinctly  alarming;  but  not  a  shot  was 
fired.  The  mob  was  left  to  exhaust  itself  with  its  own  fury;  till 
part  melted  away,  and  part  was  drawn  away  by  the  attraction 
of  a  mass  meeting  in  the  Mosque,  where  thirty-five  thousand  citi- 
zens were  gathered  to  hear  Hindu  agitators  preaching  open 
rebellion  from  Mahommedan  pulpits;  and  a  handful  of  British 
police  officers  —  present  on  duty  —  were  being  hissed  and  hooted 
amid  shouts  of  "  Hindu-Mussalman  ki  jai!" 

From  the  city  all  police  pickets  had  been  withdrawn,  since 
their  presence  would  only  provoke  disturbance  and  bloodshed. 
And  all  the  bazaar  people  were  parading  the  streets  headed  by 
an  impromptu  army  of  young  hot-heads,  carrying  Idthis,  crying 
their  eternal  "Hai!"  and  "J^i!";  v/ith  extra  special  'Jai's'  for 
the  "King  of  Germany"  and  the  Afghan  Amir.  Portraits  of 
their  Majesties  were  battered  down  and  trampled  in  the  mud; 
and  over  the  fragments  the  crowd  swept  on  shouting,  '^Hail 
Jarge  Margya!"}  And  the  air  was  full  of  the  craziest  rmnours, 
passed  on,  with  embellishments,  from  mouth  to  mouth  .  .  . 

Roy,  on  returning  to  cantonments,  was  relieved  to  find  that 
the  decision  had  already  been  taken  to  regain  control  of  the  city 
by  a  mihtary  demonstration  in  force  —  eight  hundred  troops 
and  police,  under  the  officer  commanding  Lahore  civil  area. 
Desmond's  squadron  was  included:  and  Roy,  sitting  down 
straightway,  dashed  off  a  note  to  Rose. 

My  darling, 

I'm  sorry,  but  it  looks  like  *no  go*  to-morrow.  You'll  hear  all 
from  the  Pater.  I  might  look  in  for  tiffin,  if  things  go  smoothly, 
and  if  you'M  put  up  with  me  all  dusty  and  dishevelled  from  the  fray! 
From  what  I  saw  and  heard  to-day,  we're  not  likely  to  be  greeted 
with  marigold  wreaths  and  benedictions!  Of  course  hundreds  will 
*  "Hai!  George  is  dead!" 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  373 

be  thankful  to  see  us.  But  I  doubt  if  they'll  dare  betray  the  fact. 
I  needn't  tell  you  to  keep  cool.  You're  simply  splendid. 

Your  loving  and  admiring 
Rot 

It  was  after  ten  next  morning,  the  heat  already  intense,  when 
that  mixed  force,  British  and  Indian,  and  the  four  aeroplanes 
acting  in  concert  with  them,  halted  outside  the  Delhi  gate  of 
Lahore  City,  while  an  order  was  read  to  the  assembled  leaders, 
that,  if  shots  were  fired  or  bombs  flimg,  those  aeroplanes  would 
make  things  impleasant.  Then  —  at  last  they  were  on  the  move; 
through  the  gate,  inside  the  city:  aeroplanes  flying  low,  cavalry 
bringing  up  the  rear.  ^J 

Here  normal  life  and  activity  were  completely  suspended: 
hence  more  than  half  the  trouble.  Groups  of  idlers,  sauntering 
about,  stared,  spat,  or  shook  clenched  fists,  shouting,  "  Give  us 
Ghandi,  and  we  will  open!"  "Repeal  Rowlatt  Bill,  and  we  will 
open!" 

And  at  every  turn  posters  exhorted  true  patriots  —  in  terms 
often  as  ludicrous  as  they  were  hostile  —  to  leave  off  all  dealings 
with  the  "English  monkeys,"  to  "kill  and  be  killed." 

And  as  they  advanced,  leaving  pickets  at  stated  points, 
pausing,  that  Mr.  Elton  might  exhort  the  people  to  resume  work, 
mere  groups  swelled  to  crowds,  increasing  in  number  and  viru- 
lence; their  cries  and  contortions  more  savage  than  anything 
Roy  had  yet  seen. 

But  it  was  not  till  they  reached  the  Hira  Mundi  vegetable 
market,  fronting  the  plain  and  river,  that  the  real  trouble  began. 
Here  were  large,  excited  crowds  streaming  to  and  fro  between  the 
Mosque  and  the  Mundi  —  material  inflanmiable  as  gunpowder. 
Here,  too,  were  the  hot-heads  armed  with  leaded  sticks,  hostile 
and  defiant,  shouting  their  eternal  cries. 

And  to-day,  as  yesterday,  the  Badshahi  Mosque  was  clearly 
the  centre  of  trouble.  Exhortations  to  disperse  peacefully  were 
unheeded  or  unheard.  All  over  the  open  space  they  swarnied 
like  locusts.  Their  wearisome  clamour  ceased  not  for  a  moment. 
And  the  Mosque  acted  as  a  stronghold.  Crowds  packed  away 
in  there  could  neither  be  dealt  with  nor  dispersed.  So  an  order 


374  FAR  TO  SEEK 

was  given  that  it  should  be  clearea  and  the  doors  guarded. 

Meantime,  to  loosen  the  congested  mass  it  was  cavalry  to  the 
front  —  thankful  for  movement  at  last.  There  was  a  rush  and  a 
scuffle.  Scattered  groups  sped  into  the  city.  Others  broke  away 
and  streamed  down  from  the  high  ground  into  the  open  plain, 
sowars  in  pursuit;  rounding  them  up;  shepherding  them  back 
to  their  by-lanes  and  rabbit  warrens. 

"How  does  it  feel  to  be  a  sheep  dog?"  Lance  asked  Roy,  as 
he  cantered  up,  dusty  and  perspiring.  "A  word  from  the  aero- 
planes would  do  the  trick.  —  Good  God!  Look  at  them  —  !" 

Roy  looked  —  and  swore  under  his  breath.  For  the  half-dis- 
persed thousands  were  flowing  together  again  like  quicksilver. 
The  whole  Hira  Mundi  region  was  packed  with  a  seething,  dan- 
gerous mob,  completely  out  of  hand,  amenable  to  nothing  but 
force. 

And  now,  from  the  doors  of  the  Mosque  fresh  thousands,  in- 
flamed by  fanatical  speeches,  were  flocking  across  the  open  plain 
to  join  them,  flourishing  their  Idthis  with  threatening  gestures 
and  cries. 

It  was  a  sight  to  shake  the  stoutest  heart.  Armed,  they  were 
not;  but  the  Idthi  is  a  deadly  weapon  at  close  quarters;  and 
their  mere  numbers  were  overwhelming.  Roy,  by  this  time,  was 
sick  of  their  everlasting  yells;  their  distorted  faces  full  of  hate 
and  fury;  their  senseless  abuse  of  "  tyrants,"  who  were  exercising 
a  patience  almost  superhuman. 

An  order  was  shouted  for  the  troops  to  turn  and  hold  them. 
Carnegie,  of  the  police,  dashed  off  to  the  head  of  the  column 
that  was  nearing  the  gate  of  exit,  and  the  cavalry  lined  up  in 
support  of  Mr.  Elton,  who  still  exhorted,  still  tried  to  make  him- 
self heard  by  those  who  were  determined  not  to  hear.  The 
moment  they  moved  forward,  there  was  a  fierce,  concerted  rush; 
Idthis  in  the  forefront,  bricks  and  stones  hurtling,  as  at  Anarkalli, 
but  with  fiercer  intent. 

A  large  stone  whizzed  past  the  ear  of  an  impassive  Sikh  Res- 
saldar;  half  a  brick  caught  Roy  on  the  shoulder,  another  struck 
Suraj  on  the  flank  and  slightly  disturbed  his  equanimity. 

While  Roy  was  soothing  him  came  a  renewed  rush;  the  crowd 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  375 

pushmg  boldly  in  on  all  sides  with  evident  intent  to  cut  them  off 
from  the  rest. 

The  line  broke.  There  was  a  moment  of  sickening  confusion. 
A  howling  man  brandishmg  a  Idthi  made  a  dash  at  Roy;  a  grab 
at  his  charger's  rein  .  .  . 

One  instant  his  heart  stood  still;  the  next,  Lance  dashed 
in  between,  riding-crop  lifted,  unceremoniously  hustling  Roy, 
and  nearly  oversetting  his  assailant  —  but  not  quite  — 

Down  came  the  leaded  stick  on  the  back  of  his  bridle  hand, 
cutting  it  open,  grazing  and  bruising  the  flesh.  With  an  oath 
he  dropped  the  reins  and  seized  them  in  his  right  hand. 

"Rather  neatly  done?  "  he  remarked,  smiling  at  the  dismay  in 
Roy's  eyes.  "  Ought  to  have  floored  him.  The  murdering 
brute—!" 

"Lance,  you'd  no  business  —  " 

"Oh,  drop  it.  This  isn't  polo.  It's  a  game  of  Aunt  Sally.  No 
charge  for  a  shy —  !"  As  he  spoke,  a  sharp  fragment  of  brick 
struck  his  cheek  and  drew  blood.  "Damn  them!  Getting  above 
themselves.  If  it  rested  with  me  I'd  charge.  We  can  hold  'em, 
though.  Straighten  the  line." 

"But  your  hand  —  " 

"My  hand  can  wait.  I've  got  another."  And  he  rode  on,  leav- 
ing Roy  with  a  burning,  inner  sense  as  of  actual  coals  of  fire 
heaped  on  his  unworthy  self. 

But  urgent  demand  for  action  left  no  leisure  for  thought. 
Somehow,  the  line  was  straightened;  somehow,  they  extricated 
themselves  from  the  embarrassing  attentions  of  the  mob. 
Carnegie  returned  with  armed  police;  and  four  files  were  Uned 
up  in  front  of  the  troops;  the  warning  clearly  given;  the  re- 
sponse —  fresh  uproar,  fresh  showers  of  stones  .  .  . 

Then  eight  shots  rang  out:  —  and  it  suiSced.  At  the  voice  of 
the  rifle,  the  sting  of  buckshot,  valour  and  fury  evaporated  like 
smoke.  And  directly  the  crowd  broke,  firing  ceased.  A  few  were 
wounded;  one  was  killed  —  and  carried  away  with  loud  lamen- 
tations. An  ordered  advance  with  fixed  bayonets  completed 
the  effect  that  no  other  power  on  earth  could  have  produced:  — 
and  the  Grand  Processional  was  over. 


376  FAR  TO  SEEK 

It  emerged  from  the  Bathi  gate  a  shadow  of  itself,  having 
left  more  than  half  its  nimibers  on  guard  at  vital  points  along 
the  route. 

"Scotched  —  not  killed,"  was  Lance's  pithy  verdict  on  the 
proceedings.  "As  a  bit  of  mere  police  work  —  excellent.  A.s  to 
the  result  —  we  shall  see.  But  the  CO.  must  have  been  thankful 
his  force  wasn't  a  shade  weaker." 

This  unofficially,  to  Roy,  who  had  secured  leave  off  for  tiffin 
at  the  Eltons',  and  had  ridden  forward  to  report  his  departure 
and  enquire  after  the  damaged  hand,  that  concerned  him  more 
than  anything  else  just  then  —  not  even  excepting  Rose. 

It  had  been  roughly  wrapped  in  a  silk  handkerchief;  and 
Lance  pooh-poohed  concern.  "Hurts  a  bit,  of  course.  But  it's 
no  harm.  I'll  have  it  scientifically  cleaned  up  by  CoUins  when  I 
get  in.  Don't  look  pathetic  about  nothing,  old  man.  My  own 
silly  fault  for  failing  to  ride  the  beggar  down  as  he  deserved. 
Just  as  well  it  isn't  your  hand,  you  know.  Unpleasant  —  for 
the  women." 

"Oh,  it's  all  very  well,"  Roy  muttered  awkwardly.  Lance  in 
that  vein  had  him  at  a  disadvantage,  always. 

"Don't  be  too  late,"  he  added  as  Roy  turned  to  go.  "We  may 
be  needed.  Those  operatic  performers  in  the  city  aren't  going  to 
sit  twiddling  their  thumbs,  by  the  look  of  them.  —  Whcn's  .  .  . 
the  departure?  " 

"To-morrow  or  next  day,  I  think  ..." 

"  Good  job."  A  pause.  "  Give  them  my  regards.  And  don't 
make  a  tale  over  my  hand." 

"I  shall  tell  the  truth,"  said  Roy  with  decision.  "And  I'll 
be  back  about  six." 

He  saluted  and  rode  off;  the  prospective  thrill  of  making  love 
to  Rose  damped  by  the  faet  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  look 
Lance  in  the  eyes.  Things  covddn't  go  on  like  this.  And  yet  see 
.  .  .  ?  Impossible  to  ask  Rose  outright  whether  there  had  been 
anything  definite  between  them.  If  she  said  "No,"  he  would 
not  believe  her:  —  detestable,  but  true.  If  she  —  well  ...  if  in 
any  way  he  foimd  she  had  treated  Lance  shabbily,  he  might  find 
it  hard  to  control  himself  —  or  forgive  her:  equally  detestable 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  377 

and  equally  true.  But  uncertainty  was  more  intolerable  still .  .  . 

He  found  the  household  ready  for  immediate  flitting;  and  Mrs. 
Elton  in  a  fluster  of  wrath  and  palpitation  over  startling  news 
from  Kasur. 

"The  station  burnt  and  looted.  The  Ferozepur  train  held  up. 
Two  of  our  officers  wounded  and  two  warrant  officers  beaten  to 
death  with  those  horrible  IdthisI"  She  poured  it  all  out  in  a 
breathless  rush,  before  Roy  could  even  get  near  Rose.  "It's 
official.  Mr.  Hayes  has  just  been  telling  us.  An  English  woman 
and  three  tiny  children  miraculously  saved  by  two  N.C.O.'s  and 
a  friendly  native  inspector.  Did  you  ever  —  !  And  I  hear  they 
poured  kerosene  over  the  buildings  they  burnt  and  the  bodies  of 
those  poor  men  at  Amritsar.  So  now  we  know  why  the  price 
ran  up  and  why  none  was  coming  into  the  country!  Yet  they 
say  this  isn't  another  Mutiny  —  don't  tell  me.  I  was  so  thankful 
to  be  getting  away;  and  now  I'm  terrified  to  stir.  Fancy  if  it 
happened  to  us  —  to-morrow! " 

"My  dear  Mother,  it  won't  happen  to  us."  Her  daughter's 
cool  tones  had  a  tinge  of  contempt.  "They're  guarding  the 
trains.  And  Fazl  Ali  wouldn't  let  anyone  lay  a  finger  on  us." 

Mrs.  Elton's  sigh  had  the  effect  of  a  small  cyclone.  "Well, 
/  don't  believe  we  shall  reach  Simla  without  having  our  throats 
cut  —  or  worse,"  she  declared  with  settled  conviction. 

"You'U  be  almost  disappointed  if  we  do!"  Rose  quizzed  her 
cruelly,  but  sweetly,  "And  now  perhaps  I  may  get  at  Roy,  who's 
probably  tired  and  thirsty  after  all  ^ose  hours  in  the  sun." 

The  jeremiad  revived,  at  intervals,  throughout  tiffin;  but 
directly  it  was  over,  Rose  carried  Roy  off  to  her  boudoir  —  her 
own  comer;  its  atmosphere  as  cool  and  restful  as  the  girl  her- 
self, after  the  strife  and  heat  and  noise  in  the  city. 

They  spent  a  peaceful  two  hours  together.  Roy  detected  no 
shadow  of  constraint  in  her;  and  hoped  the  effect  of  Thursday 
had  passed  off.  For  himself,  all  inner  perturbation  was  charmed 
away  by  her  tender  concern  for  the  bruised  shoulder  —  a  big 
bruise;  she  could  feel  it  under  his  coat  —  and  the  look  in  her 
eyes  while  he  told  the  story  of  Lance;  not  colouring  it  up,  be- 
cause of  what  he  had  said,  yet  not  concealing  its  effect  on  himself. 


378  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"He's  quite  a  splendid  sort  of  person,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
tug  at  the  string  of  her  circular  fan.  "But  you  know  all  about 
that," 

"Rather." 

She  drew  in  her  lip  and  was  silent.  If  he  could  speak  now.  In 
this  mood,  he  might  beUeve  her  —  might  even  forgive  her  .  .  . 

But  it  was  she  who  spoke. 

"What  about  —  the  Kashmir  plan?" 

"God  knows.  It's  all  in  abeyance.  The  Colonel's  wedding 
too." 

"Will  you  be  allowed  —  I  wonder  —  to  pay  me  a  little  visit 
first?  "  Her  smile  and  the  manner  of  her  request  were  irresistible. 

"It's  just  possible!"  he  returned,  in  the  same  vein.  "I  fancy 
Lance  would  understand." 

"Oh  —  he  would.  And  to-morrow  —  the  night  train?  Can 
you  be  there?  " 

He  looked  doubtful.  "It  depends  —  how  things  go. — And 
I  rather  bar  station  partings." 

"So  do  I.'  But  still  .  .  .  Mother's  been  clamouring  for  you 
to  come  up  with  us  and  guard  the  hairs  of  our  heads!  But  I 
deftly  squashed  the  idea." 

"Bless  you,  darling!"  He  drew  her  close,  and  she  leaned  her 
cheek  against  him  with  a  sigh,  in  which  present  content  and 
prospective  sadness  were  strangely  mingled.  It  was  in  these 
gentle,  pensive  moods  that  Roy  came  near  to  loving  her  as  he 
had  dreamed  of  loving  the  girl  he  would  make  his  wife. 

"I'm  still  jealous  of  the  Gilgit  plan,"  she  murmured.  "And  of 
course  I  wish  you  were  coming  up  to-morrow  —  even  more  than 
Mother  does!  But  at  least  I've  the  grace  to  be  glad  you're  not  — 
which  is  rather  an  advance  for  me! " 

Their  parting,  if  less  passionate,  was  more  tender  than  usual; 
and  Roy  rode  away  with  a  distinct  ache  in  his  heart  at  thought 
of  losing  her;  a  nascent  reluctance  to  make  mountains  out  of 
molehills  in  respect  of  her  and  Lance  .  .  . 

Riding  back  along  the  Mall,  he  noticed  absently  an  approach- 
ing horsewoman;  and  recognised  —  too  late  for  escape  —  Mrs. 
Hunter-Ranyard.  By  timely  flight,  on  Thursday,  he  had  evaded 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  379 

her  congratulations.  Intuition  told  him  she  would  say  things 
that  jarred.  Now,  he  flicked  Suraj  with  the  base  intent  of  merely 
greeting  her  as  he  passed. 

But  she  was  a  woman  of  experience  and  resource.  She  beck- 
oned him  airily  with  her  riding-crop. 

"Mr.  Sinclair?  What  luck!  I'm  dying  to  hear  how  the  'March 
Past'  went  off.  Did  you  get  thunders  of  applause?" 

"Oh,  thimders!  —  the  monsoon  variety! " 

"I  saw  you  all  in  the  distance,  coming  in  from  my  early  ride. 
You  looked  very  imposing  with  your  attendant  aeroplanes!  — 
May  I?"  She  turned  her  pony's  head  without  awaiting  permis- 
sion and  rode  alongside  of  him  at  a  foot's  pace,  clamouring  for 
details. 

He  supplied  them,  fluently,  in  the  hope  of  heading  her  off  per- 
sonalities. A  vain  hope:  for  personalities  were  her  daily  bread. 

She  took  advantage  of  the  first  pause  to  ask,  with  an  ineffable 
look:  "Are  you  still  feeling  very  shy  of  being  engaged?  You 
bolted  on  Thursday.  I  hadn't  a  chance.  And  I'm  rather  specially 
interested."  The  look  became  almost  caressing.  "Did  it  ever 
occur  to  your  exquisite  modesty  that  I  wanted  you  for  my 
cavaUer?  You  seemed  so  young  —  in  experience;  I  thought  a 
little  innocuous  education  might  be  an  advantage  before  you 
plunged.  But  —  she  snatched!  Oh,  she  did!  Without  seemmg 
to  lift  an  eyebrow,  in  her  inimitable  way.  Very  clever!  In  fact, 
she's  been  very  clever  all  roxmd.  She's  eluded  her  'coming  man' 
on  one  side,  and  ructions  over  her  soldier  man  on  the  other  —  " 

"Look  here  —  I'm  engaged  to  her,"  Roy  protested,  trying  not 
to  be  aware  of  a  sick  sensation  inside.  "And  you  know  I  hate 
that  sort  of  talk  —  " 

"I  ought  to,  by  this  time!"  She  made  tenderly  apologetic 
eyes  at  him.  "But  I'm  afraid  I'm  incurable.  Don't  be  angry, 
Sir  Galahad!  You've  won  the  Kohinoor;  and  although  you  seem 
to  hve  in  the  clouds,  you've  had  the  sense  to  make  things  pukka 
straightaway.  'Understandings'  and  private  engagements  are 
the  root  of  all  evil!" 

"I'm  blest  if  I  know  what  you're  driving  at!"  he  flashed  out, 
his  temper  rising. 


380  FAR  TO  SEEK 

But  she  only  laughed  her  tinkling  laugh  and  shook  her  riding- 
whip  at  him. 

'' Souvent  femme  varie!  Have  you  ever  heard  that,  you  blessed 
innocent?  And  the  general  impression  is  —  there's  already  been 
one  private  engagement  —  if  not  more.  I  was  trying  to  tell  you 
that  afternoon  to  save  your  poor  fingers  —  " 

"It's  all  rot  —  spiteful  rot!"  The  pain  of  increasing  convic- 
tion made  Roy  careless  of  his  manners.  "The  women  are  jeal- 
ous of  her  beauty,  so  they  invent  any  tale  that's  likely  to  be 
swallowed  —  " 

"Possibly,  my  dear  boy.  But  I  can't  tell  my  neighbours  to 
their  faces  that  they  lie!  And,  after  all,  if  you  win  a  beautiful 
girl  of  SLx-and-twenty  you've  got  to  swallow  the  fact,  wdth  a  good 
grace,  that  there  miist  have  been  others;  and  thank  God  you're 
IT  —  if  not  the  only  IT  that  ever  was  on  land  or  sea!  —  After 
that  maternal  homily,  allow  me  to  congratulate  you.  I've  al- 
ready congratulated  her,  de  mon  plein  cceurl " 

"Thanks  very  much.  More  than  I  deserve!"  said  Roy,  only 
half  mollified.  "But  I'm  afraid  I  must  hurry  on  now.  Desmond 
asked  me  not  to  be  late." 

"Confound  the  women!"  was  his  imgallant  reflection,  as  he 
rode  away. 

Mrs.  Ranyard's  tongue  had  virtually  undone  the  effect  of  his 
peaceful  two  hours  with  Rose.  After  that  —  clash  or  no  clash  — 
he  must  have  the  thing  out  with  Lance,  at  the  first  available 
moment. 


Chapter  X 

In  you  I  most  discern,  in  your  brave  spirit,^ 
Erect  and  certain,  flashing  deeds  of  light, 
A  clear  jet  from  the  fountain  of  all  Being; 
A  scripture  clearer  than  all  else  to  read. 

J.  C.  Squibe 

Roy  returned  to  an  empty  bungalow. 

On  enquiry  he  learnt  that  the  Major  Sahib  had  gone  over  to 
see  the  Colonel  Sahib;  and  Wazir  Khan,  Desmond's  bearer, 
abused  in  lurid  terms  the  bastard  son  of  a  pig  who  had  dared  to 
assault  the  first  Sahib  in  creation.  Roy,  sitting  down  at  his  table, 
pushed  aside  a  half-written  page  of  his  novel,  and  his  pen  raced 
over  the  paper  in  a  headlong  letter  to  JeflFers  —  a  vivid  chronicle 
of  recent  events.  It  was  an  outlet,  merely,  for  his  pent-up  sensa- 
tions, and  a  salve  to  his  conscience.  He  had  neglected  Jeffers 
lately,  as  well  as  his  novel.  He  had  been  demoralised,  utterly, 
these  last  few  weeks;  and  to-day,  by  way  of  crowning  demorali- 
sation, he  felt  by  no  means  certain  what  the  end  would  be  —  for 
himself;  still  less,  for  India. 

The  damaged  Major  Sahib  —  imtroubled  by  animosity  — 
appeared  only  just  in  time  to  change  for  Mess;  his  cheek  un- 
becomingly plastered;  his  hand  in  a  sling. 

"Beastly  nuisance.  Hukm  hai,"^  he  explained  in  response  to 
Roy's  glance  of  enquiry.  "Collins  says  it's  a  bit  inflamed. 
I've  been  confabbing  with  Paul  over  the  deferred  wedding.  But 
of  course  there's  no  chance  of  things  settling  down,  unless  we 
declare  martial  law.  The  police  are  played  out;  and  as  for  the 
impression  we  made  this  morning  —  the  D.C.'s  just  telephoned 
in  for  a  hundred  British  troops  and  armoured  cars  to  picket  and 
patrol  bimgalows  in  Lahore.  Seems  he's  received  an  authentic 
report  that  the  city  people  are  planning  to  rush  civil  lines,  loot  / 
the  bimgalows,  and  assault  our  women  —  damn  them.  So,  by 
*  It  is  an  order.  h 


382  FAR  TO  SEEK 

way  of  precaution,  he  has  very  wisely  asked  for  troops.  —  Are 
they  oflF  —  those  two?  " 

"To-morrow  night,"  said  Roy,  feeling  so  horribly  constrained 
that  the  influx  of  Barnard  and  Meredith  was,  for  once,  almost  a 
relief. 

Then  there  was  Mess;  fresh  speculations,  fresh  tales,  and  a 
certain  amount  of  chaff  over  Desmond  having '  stopped  a  brick'; 
Barnard,  in  satirical  vein,  regretting  to  report  bloody  encoimter: 
one  casualty,  enemy  sprinkled  with  buckshot,  retired  according 
to  plan. 

Before  the  meal  was  over,  Roy  fancied  he  detected  a  change  in 
Lance;  his  talk  and  laughter  seemed  a  trifle  strained;  his  hps 
set,  now  and  then,  as  if  he  were  in  pain. 

Later  on,  he  came  up  and  remarked  casually:  "I'm  not  feeling 
very  bright.  I  think  I'll  turn  in.  Perhaps  the  sim  touched  me 
up  a  bit."  Clearly  Roy's  face  betrayed  him;  for  Lance  added 
in  an  imperative  undertone:  "Don't  look  at  me  like  that.  I'm 
going  to  slip  off  quietly;  not  to  worry  Paul." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  sHp  off,  too,"  Roy  retorted  with  decision. 
*'I  feel  used  up;  and  my  beast  of  a  bruise  hurts  like  blazes." 

"Drive  me  home,  then,"  said  Lance;  and  his  changed  tone, 
no  less  than  the  surprising  request,  told  Roy  he  would  be  glad 
of  his  company. 

They  said  Uttle  during  the  drive;  Roy,  because  he  felt  vaguely 
anxious;  and  knew  it  would  annoy  Lance  if  he  betrayed  concern 
or  enquired  after  symptoms.  It  seemed  a  shamt  to  worry  the 
poor  fellow  in  this  state;  but  silence  had  now  become  impossible. 

"Are  you  for  bed,  old  man?"  he  asked  when  they  got  in. 

"  Rather  not.  I  just  felt  a  bit  queer.  Wanted  to  get  away  from 
them  all  and  be  quiet." 

His  normal  manner  eased  Roy's  anxiety  a  little;  and  without 
more  ado  they  settled  into  long  verandah  chairs  and  called  for 
'pegs.'  The  night  was  utterly  still.  A  red,  distorted  moon  hung 
just  above  the  tree-tops.  Yelling  and  spitting  crowds  seemed  to 
belong  to  another  world. 

Lance  leaned  back  in  the  shadow,  the  tip  of  his  cigar  glowing 
like  a  fierce  planet.  Roy  sat  forward,  tense  and  purposeful; 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  383' 

hating  what  he  had  to  say;  yet  goaded  by  the  knowledge  that 
he  could  have  no  peace  of  mind  till  it  was  said. 

He  was  silent  a  few  moments,  pulling  at  his  cigar;  then: 

"Look  here,  Lance,"  he  said,  "I've  got  a  question  to  ask. 
You  won't  like  it  —  I  don't  either.  But  the  truth  is  .  .  .  I'm 
bothered  to  know  what  is  ...  or  has  been  .  .  .  between  you 
and  ...  " 

"Drop  it,  Roy."  There  was  pam  and  impatience  in  Desmond's 
tone.  "I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  thai" 

Flat  opposition  gave  Roy  precisely  the  spur  he  needed. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  got  to,  though."  The  statement  was  plac- 
able but  decisive.  "  I  can't  go  on  this  way.  It's  getting  on  my 
nerves  —  " 

"Devil  take  your  nerves,"  said  Lance  politely.  Then  —  with 
an  obvious  effort  —  "Has  she  —  said  anything?" 

"No." 

"Then  why  the  hell  can't  you  let  be?" 

"I  shall  let  be  —  altogether,  if  this  goes  on;  —  this  infernal 
awkwardness  between  us;  and  the  things  she  says  —  the  way 
she  looks  .  .  .  almost  as  if  she  cares." 

"Well,  I  give  you  my  oath  —  she  doesn't.  I  suppose  /  ought 
to  know?  " 

"That  depends  —  how  things  were  before  I  came  up.  She's 
twice  let  your  name  slip  out,  unawares.  And  at  Anarkalli  she  was 
extraordinarily  upset.  And  to-day  —  about  your  hand.  Then, 
riding  home,  I  met  Mrs.  Ranyard.  And  she  started  talking  .  .  . 
hinting  at  a  private  engagement  —  " 

"Mrs.  Ranyard  deserves  to  have  her  tongue  removed.  She'd 
tell  any  lie  about  another  woman." 

"Quite  so.  But  wit  a  lie?  That's  my  point.  It  fits  in  too  neatly 
with  —  the  other  things  —  '* 

Lance  gave  him  a  sidelong  look.  Their  faces  were  just  visible 
in  the  moonlight. 

"Jealous  —  are  you?"  —  His  tone  was  almost  tender. — 
**you  damned  lucky  devil  —  you've  no  cause  to  be." 

That  natural  inference  startlingly  revealed  to  Roy  that  jeal- 
ousy had  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  his  trouble;  and  so  great 


384  FAR  TO  SEEK 

was  the  relief  of  open  speech  between  them  that  instinctively  he 
told  the  truth. 

"N-no.  I'm  bothered  about  yoM." 

"Good  God!"  Desmond's  abrupt  laugh  had  no  mirth  in  it. 


"Yes  —  naturally.  If  it  amounted  to...  an  engagement, 
and  I  charged  in  and  upset  everything ...  I  can't  forgive 
myself ...  or  her  —  " 

At  that,  Desmond  sat  forward;  obstructive  no  longer.  "If 
you're  going  so  badly  off  the  rails,  you  must  have  it  straight. 
And    .  .  confound  you!  ...  it  hurts  —  " 

"I  can  see  that.  And  it's  more  or  less  my  doing  —  " 

"On  the  contrary  —  it  was  primarily  my  doing  —  as  you 
justly  pointed  out  to  me  a  week  or  two  ago." 

Roy  groaned.  The  irony  of  the  situation  stung  Uke  a  whip- 
lash. ''Did  it  amount  to  an  engagement?"  he  persisted. 

"There  or  thereabouts."  Lance  paused  and  took  a  long  pull 
at  his  cigar.  ''But  —  it  was  quite  between  ourselves  —  in  fact, 
conditional  on .  .  .  the  headway  I  could  manage  to  make. 
She  —  cared,  in  a  way.  Not  —  as  I  do.  That  was  one  hitch. 
The  other  was  Oh  'Ell's  antipathy  to  soldiers  —  as  husbands 
for  her  precious  family.  She  —  Rose  —  knew  there  would  be 
ructions  —  a  downright  tussle,  in  fact.  Well  —  she'll  go  almost 
any  length  to  avoid  ructions;  'specially  with  her  mother.  I 
don't  blame  her.  The  woman's  a  caution.  So  —  she  shirked 
facing  the  music  ...  till  she  felt  quite  sure  of  herself  ..." 

"Till  she  felt  sure  of  herself,  there  should  have  been  no  en- 
gagement," Roy  decreed,  amazed  at  his  own  rising  anger. 
"  Unfair  —  on  you." 

Desmond's  smile  was  the  ghost  of  its  normal  sell.  "You  al- 
ways were  a  bit  of  a  purist,  Roy!  Besides  —  it  was  my  doing 
again.  I  pressed  the  point.  And  I  think .  .  .  she  liked  me 
.  .  .  loving  her.  She  really  seemed  to  be  coming  my  way  — 
till  you  turned  up  —  "  He  clenched  his  hand  and  leaned  back 
again,  drawing  a  deep  breath.  "I'm  forcing  myself  to  tell  you 
all  this  —  since  you've  asked  for  it  —  because  I  won't  have  you 
blaming  her  —  " 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  385 

Roy  said  nothing.  Remembering  how  throughout  the  initia- 
tive had  been  hers,  how  hard  he  had  striven  against  being  en- 
snared, he  did  blame  her,  a  go«d  deal  more  than  he  could  very 
well  admit  to  this  friend,  whose  single-hearted  devotion  made 
his  own  mere  mingling  of  infatuation  and  passion  seem  artificial 
as  gaslight  in  the  blaze  of  dawn. 

But  knowing  so  much  —  he  must  know  all. 

"How  long  —  was  it  on? " 

"Oh,  about  three  weeks  before  you  came.  /  was  on  a  long 
while.  Before  Christmas." 

"Since  when  has  it  been  —  off?" 

Lance  hesitated.  "Well  —  thmgs  became  shaky  after  Kapur- 
thala.  That  day  —  the  wedding,  you  remember?  —  I  spoke 
rather  straight .  .  .  about  you.  I  saw  you  were  getting  keen. 
And  I  didn't  want  you  to  come  a  cropper  —  " 

"Why  the  devil  didn't  you  tell  me  the  truthf" 

Lance  set  his  lips.  "Of  course  I  wanted  to.  But  —  it  was 
diflBcult.  She  said  —  not  anyone.  Made  a  point  of  it.  Not  even 
Paul.  And  I  was  keen  for  her  to  feel  quite  free;  no  slur  on  her 
—  if  things  fell  through.  So  —  as  I  couldn't  warn  you,  I  spoke 
to  her.  Perhaps  I  was  a  fool.  Women  are  queer.  You  can  never 
be  sure .  .  .  and  it  seemed  to  have  quite  the  wrong  effect. 
Then  I  saw  she  was  really  losing  her  head  over  you  —  natural 
enough.  So  I  simply  stood  by.  If  she  really  wanted  you  —  not 
me,  that  was  another  affair.  And  it's  plain  ...  she  did." 

"But  when  —  did  she  make  it  plain?"  Roy  insisted,  feeling 
more  and  more  as  if  the  ground  were  giving  way  under  his 
feet. 

"Just  before  the  Gym.  That .  .  .  was  why  ..."  He  looked 
full  at  Roy  now.  His  eyes  darkened  with  pain.  "I  felt  like 
murdering  you  that  day,  Roy.  Afterwards .  .  .  well  —  one 
managed  to  carry  on  somehow.  One  always  can- — at  a 
pinch  .  .  .  you  know." 

"My  God!  It's  the  bitterest,  ironical  tangle!"  Roy  burst  out 
with  a  smothered  vehemence  that  told  its  own  tale.  "You 
ought  to  have  insisted  about  me,  Lance.  I  wouldn't  for  fifty 
worlds  ..." 


386  FAR  TO  SEEK  ' 

"Of  course  you  wouldn't.  Don't  fret,  old  man.  And  don't 
blame  her" 

"Blame  or  no,  I  can't  pretend  it  doesn't  alter  things.  . . 
spoil  things,  badly  .  .  .  '* 

He  broke  off,  startled  by  the  change  in  Desmond.  His  face 
was  drawn.  He  was  shivering  violently. 

"Lance  —  what  is  it?  Fever?  Have  you  been  feeling  bad?'* 

Desmond  set  his  lips  to  steady  them.  "On  and  off  —  at  Mess. 
Touch  of  the  sun,  perhaps.  I'll  get  to  bed  and  souse  myself  with 
quinine." 

But  he  was  so  obviously  ill  that  Roy  paid  no  heed.  "Well, 
I'm  going  to  send  for  Collins  instanter.'* 

"Don't  make  an  ass  of  yourself,  Roy,"  Lance  flashed  out: 
but  his  hands  were  shaking:  his  lips  were  shaking.  He  was  no 
longer  in  cormnand  of  affairs .  .  . 

While  the  message  sped  on  its  way,  Roy  got  him  to  bed  some- 
how; eased  things  a  little  with  hot  bottles  and  brandy;  nameless 
terrors  knocking  at  his  heart .  .  . 

In  less  than  no  time  Collins  appeared,  with  the  Colonel;  and 
their  faces  told  Roy  that  his  terror  was  only  too  well  founded .  . . 

Within  an  hour  he  knew  the  worst:  —  acute  blood-poisoning 
from  the  lAthi  wound. 

"Any  hope  —  ?"  he  asked  the  genial  doctor,  while  Paul  Des- 
mond knelt  by  the  bed  speaking  to  his  brother  in  low  tones. 

"Too  early  to  give  an  opinion,"  was  the  cautious  answer. 
But  the  caution  and  the  man's  whole  manner  told  Roy  the  in- 
credible, unbearable  truth.  Something  inside  him  seemed  to 
snap.  In  that  moment  of  bewildered  agony,  he  felt  like  a  mur- 
derer .  .  . 

Looking  back  afterwards,  Roy  marvelled  how  he  had  lived 
through  the  waking  nightmare  of  those  awful  two  days  —  while 
the  doctor  did  all  that  was  humanly  possible  and  Lance  pitted 
all  the  clean  strength  of  his  manhood  against  the  swift,  deadly 
progress  of  the  poison  in  his  veins.  It  was  simply  a  question  of 
hours;  of  fighting  the  devil  to  the  last  on  principle,  rather  than 
from  any  likelihood  of  victory.  With  heart  and  hope  broken, 


'  DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  ^7 

superhumanly  they  struggled  on.  For  Roy,  the  world  outside 
that  dim,  whitewashed  bedroom  ceased  to  exist.  The  loss  of  his 
mother  had  been  anguish  unalloyed;  but  he  had  not  seen  her 
go.  .  . 

Now,  he  saw  —  and  heard,  which  was  worse  than  all. 

For  Lance,  towards  the  end,  was  constantly  delirious;  and, 
in  deUrium,  he  raved  of  Rose  —  always  of  Rose.  He,  the  soul 
of  reserve,  poured  out  incontinently  his  passion,  his  worship, 
his  fury  of  jealousy  —  till  Roy  grew  almost  to  hate  the  sound  of 
her  name.  Worse  —  he  was  constrained  to  tell  the  Colonel  the 
meaning  of  it  all:  to  see  anger  flash  through  the  haunting  pain 
in  his  eyes. 

Only  twice,  during  the  final  struggle,  the  real  Lance  emerged; 
and  on  the  second  occasion  they  happened  to  be  alone.  Their 
eyes  met  in  the  old,  intimate  imderstanding.  Lance  flung  out 
his  undamaged  hand  and  grasped  Roy's  with  all  the  force  still 
left  him. 

"Don't  fret  your  heart  out,  Roy  —  if  I  can't  pull  through," 
he  said  in  his  normal  voice.  "  Carry  on.  And  —  don't  blame 
Rose.  It'll  hurt  her  —  a  bit.  Don't  hurt  her  more  —  because  of 
me.  And  —  look  here,  stand  by  Paul  for  a  time.  He'll  need  you." 

Roy's  "Trust  me,  dear  old  man,"  applied,  mentally,  to  the 
last.  Even  at  that  supreme  moment  he  was  dimly  thankful  it 
came  last. 

Then  the  Colonel  returned;  and  they  could  say  no  more; 
nor  could  Roy  find  it  in  his  heart  to  grudge  him  a  moment  of 
that  brief,  blessed  interlude  of  real  contact  with  the  man  they 
loved .  .  . 

There  could  be  no  question  of  going  to  Lahore  station  on 
Sunday  evening.  He  was  ill  himself,  though  he  did  not  know  it; 
and  his  soul  was  centred  on  Lance  —  the  gallant  spirit  inwoven 
with  almost  every  act  and  thought  and  inspiration  of  his  life. 
By  comparison,  Rose  was  nothing  to  him;  less  than  nothing; 
a  mushroom  growth  —  sudden  and  violent  —  with  no  deep  roots; 
only  fibres. 

So  he  sent  her,  by  an  orderly,  a  few  hurried  lines  of  explana- 
tion and  farewell. 


388  FAR  TO  SEEK 

My  Bear, 

I'm  sorry,  but  I  carCt  come  to-night.  We  are  all  in  dreadful  grief. 
Lance  down  with  acute  blood-poisoning.  Collins  evidently  fears  the 
worst.  I  can't  write  of  it.  I  do  trust  you  get  up  safely.  I'll  write 
again,  when  it's  possible.  Yours 

Roy 

Yes,  he  was  still  hers  —  so  far.  More  than  that  he  could  not 
honestly  add.  Beyond  this  awful  hour  he  could  not  look.  It  was 
as  if  one  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  and  the  next  step  would 
be  a  drop  into  black  darkness .  .  . 

By  Monday  night  it  was  over.  After  forty-eight  hours  of 
fever  and  struggle  and  pain,  Lance  Desmond  lay  at  rest  —  serene 
and  noble  in  death,  as  he  had  been  in  life.  And  Roy  —  having 
achieved  one  long,  slow  climb  out  of  the  depths  —  was  flimg 
back  again,  deeper  than  ever .  .  , 

It  was  near  midnight  when  the  end  came.  Utterly  weary  and 
broken,  he  had  simk  into  Lance's  chair,  leaning  forward,  his  face 
hidden,  his  frame  shaken  all  through  with  hard,  dry  sobs  that 
would  not  be  stilled. 

Through  the  fog  of  his  misery  he  felt  the  Colonel's  hand  on 
his  shoulder;  heard  the  familiar  voice,  deep  and  kindly:  "My 
dear  Roy,  get  to  bed.  We  can't  have  you  on  the  sick-list.  There's 
work  to  do;  a  great  gap  to  be  filled  —  somehow.  I'll  stay  — 
with  him." 

At  that,  he  pulled  himself  together  and  stood  up.  "I'll  do 
my  best.  Colonel,"  was  all  he  could  say.  The  face  he  had  so 
rarely  seen  perturbed  was  haggard  with  grief.  They  looked 
straight  at  one  another;  and  the  thought  flashed  on  Roy,  *I 
must  tell  him.'  Not  easy;  but  it  had  to  be  done. 

"There's  something,  sir,"  he  began,  "I  feel  you  ought  to 
know.  By  rights,  it  —  it  should  have  been  me.  That  brute  with 
the  l&lhi  was  right  on  me;  and  he  —  Lance  —  dashed  in  between 
.  .  ,  rode  him  off  —  and  got  the  knock  —  intended  for  me. 
It  —  it  haimts  me." 

Paul  Desmond  was  silent  a  moment.  Pain  and  exaltation 
contended  strangely  in  his  tired  pyes.  Then:  "I  —  don't  won- 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  389 

der,"  he  said  slowly.  "It  —  was  like  him.  Thank  you  for  tell- 
ing me.  It  will  be  —  some  small  comfort ...  to  all  of  them. 
Now  —  try  and  get  a  little  sleep." 

Roy  shook  his  head.  "Impossible.  Good-night,  Colonel. 
It's  a  reUef  to  feel  you  know.  For  God's  sake,  let  me  do  any 
mortal  thing  I  can  for  any  of  you." 

There  was  another  moment  of  silence;  of  palpable  hesita- 
tion; then  once  again  Paul  Desmond  put  his  hand  on  Roy's 
shoulder. 

"Look  here,  Roy,"  he  said.  "Drop  calling  me  Colonel.  You 
two  —  were  like  brothers.  And  —  as  Thea's  included,  why 
should  I  be  out  of  it?  Let  me  —  be  'Paul.'  " 

It  was  hard  to  do.  It  was  inimitably  done.  It  gave  Roy  the 
very  lift  he  needed  in  that  hour  when  he  felt  as  if  they  must  al- 
most hate  him,  and  never  wish  to  set  eyes  on  him  again. 

"I  —  I  shall  be  proud,"  he  said;  and,  turning  away  to  hide 
his  emotion,  went  back  to  the  bed  that  drew  him  like  a  magnet. 

There  he  knelt  a  long  while,  sense  and  spirit  fused  in  a  torment 
of  mute,  passionate  protest  against  the  power  of  so  trivial  an 
injury  to  rob  the  world  of  so  much  gallantry  and  charm.  Resig- 
nation was  far  from  him.  With  all  the  vehemence  that  was  in 
him,  he  raged  against  his  loss  .  .  . 

Next  morning  they  awoke,  as  from  a  prolonged  and  terrible 
dream,  to  find  Lahore  practically  cut  oflF  from  Simla  and  Delhi; 
all  wires  down  but  one;  the  hartal  continuing  in  defiance 
of  orders  and  exhortations;  more  stations  demolished;  more 
trains  derailed  and  looted ,  all  available  British  troops  recalled 
from  the  Hills.  But  for  five  sets  of  wireless  plants,  urgently  asked 
for,  isolation  would  have  been  complete. 

By  the  fourteenth  the  position  was  desperate.  Civil  author- 
ity flatly  defied:  the  police  —  lacking  reserves  —  fairly  played 
out:  the  temperature  chart  of  rebellion  at  its  highest  point. 
The  inference  was  plain. 

Organised  revolt  is  amenable  only  to  the  ultimate  argument 
of  force.  Nothing,  now,  would  serve  but  strong  action,  and  the 
compelling  power  of  martial  law. 


390  ,  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Happily  for  India,  the  men  who  had  striven  their  utmost 
to  avoid  both  did  not  falter  in  that  critical  hour. 

At  Amritsar  strong  action  had  already  been  taken;  and  the 
sobering  effect  of  it  spread  in  widening  circles,  bringing  relief  to 
thousands  of  both  races;  not  least  to  men  whose  nerve  and  re- 
source had  been  strained  almost  to  the  limit  of  endurance. 

In  Lahore  notices  of  martial  law  were  issued.  The  suspended 
life  of  the  city  tentatively  revived.  Law-abiding  men  of  all  ranks 
breathed  more  freely:  and  for  the  moment  it  seemed  the  worst 
was  over .  .  . 

Roy  —  having  slept  off  a  measure  of  his  utter  fatigue  —  took 
up  the  dead  weight  of  life  again,  with  the  old  sick  sensation  of 
three  years  ago,  that  nothing  mattered  in  earth  or  heaven.  But 
then  there  had  been  Lance  to  uphold  and  cheer  him.  Now  there 
was  only  the  hard,  tmfailing  mercy  of  work  to  be  pulled  through 
somehow. 

There  was  also  Rose  —  and  the  problem  of  letting  her  know 
that  he  knew.  And  —  their  marriage?  All  that  seemed  to  have 
suffered  shipwreck  with  the  rest  of  him.  He  was  still  too  dazed 
and  blinded  with  grief  to  see  an  inch  ahead.  He  only  knew  he 
could  not  bear  to  see  her,  who  had  made  Lance  suffer  so,  till 
the  first  anguish  had  been  dulled  a  little  —  on  the  surface,  at 
least. 


Chapter  XI 

Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a  beauteous  daj^ 
To  let  base  clouds  o'erlake  me  in  my  way, 
Hiding  thy  bravery  in  their  rotten  smoket 

Shakspese 

And  away  up  in  Simla,  Rose  Arden  was  enduring  her  own  minor 
form  of  purgatory.  The  news  of  Lance  Desmond's  sudden  death 
had  startled  and  saddened  her;  had  pierced  through  her  surface 
serenity  to  the  deep  places  of  a  nature  that  was  not  altogether 
shallow  under  its  veneer  of  egotism  and  coquetry. 

On  a  morning,  near  the  end  of  April,  she  sat  alone  in  the  gar- 
den imder  deodar  boughs  tasselled  with  tips  of  young  green. 
In  a  border  beyond  the  lawn,  spring  flowers  were  awake;  the 
bank  was  starred  with  white  violets  and  wild  strawberry  blos- 
soms: and,  through  a  gap  in  the  ilex  trees  beyond,  she  had  a 
vision  of  far  hills  and  flashing  snow-peaks,  blue-white  in  the  sim, 
cobalt  in  shadow.  Overhead,  among  the  higher  branches  a  bird 
was  trilling  out  an  ecstatic  love-song. 

But  the  year's  renewal,  the  familiar  flutter  of  Simla's  awaken- 
ing, sharpened,  rather,  that  new  ache  at  her  heart;  the  haunting, 
incredible  thought  that  down  there,  in  the  stifling,  dusty  plains, 
Lance  Desmond  lay  dead,  in  the  springtime  of  his  splendid 
manhood;  dead  of  his  own  generous  impulse  to  save  Roy  from 
hurt. 

Since  the  news  came  she  had  avoided  sociabilities  and,  unob- 
trusively, worn  no  colours.  Foolish  and  fatuous,  was  it?  She 
only  knew  that  —  Lance  being  gone  —  she  could  not  make  no 
difference  in  her  daily  toimd,  whatever  others  might  think  or  say. 

And  the  mere  fact  of  his  being  gone  seemed  strangely  to  revive 
the  memory  of  his  love  for  her,  of  her  own  genuine,  if  inadequate, 
response.  For  she  had  been  more  nearly  in  love  with  him  than 
with  any  of  his  predecessors  (and  there  had  been  several  of  them) 
who  had  been  admitted  to  the  privileged  intimacies  of  the  half- 
accepted  lover.  More:  he  had  commanded  her  admiratioH; 


392  FAR  TO  SEEK 

and  she  had  not  been  woman  could  she  have  held  out  indefinitely 
against  his  passionate,  whole-hearted  devotion. 

After  months  of  patient  wooing  —  and  he  by  nature  impatient 
—  he  had  insisted  that  matters  be  settled,  one  way  or  the  other, 
before  he  went  on  leave;  and  she  had  almost  reached  the  point  of 
decision  —  when  Roy,  with  his  careless  charm  and  challenging 
detachment,  appeared  on  the  scene .  .  . 

And  now  —  Lance  was  gone;  Roy  was  hers;  Bramleigh 
Beeches  and  a  prospective  title  were  hers;  but  still .  .  . 

The  shock  of  Roy's  revelation  had  upset  her  a  good  deal  more 
than  she  dared  let  him  guess.  And  the  effect  did  not  pass  —  in 
spite  of  determined  efforts  to  be  unaware  of  it.  She  knew,  now, 
that  her  vaunted  tolerance  sprang  chiefly  from  having  ignored 
the  whole  subject.  Half-castes  she  instinctively  despised.  For 
India  and  the  Indians  she  had  little  real  sympathy;  and  the  ris- 
ing tide  of  unrest,  the  increasing  antagonism,  had  sharpened  her 
negative  attitude  to  a  positive  dishke  and  distrust,  acutely  in- 
tensified since  that  evening  at  Anarkalli,  when  the  sight  of 
Lance  and  her  step-father,  sitting  there  at  the  mercy  of  any 
chance-flung  missile,  had  stirred  the  slumbering  passion  in  her  to 
fury.  For  one  bewildering  moment,  she  had  scarcely  been  able 
to  endure  Roy's  touch  or  look,  because  he  was  even  remotely 
linked  with  those  creatures  who  mouthed  and  yelled  and  would 
have  murdered  them  all  without  compimction. 

The  impression  of  those  few  nerve-racking  days  had  struck 
deep.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all,  Roy's  hold  on  her  was  strong;  the 
stronger,  perhaps,  because  she  had  been  aware  of  his  inner  resist- 
ance and  had  never  felt  quite  sure  of  him.  She  did  not  feel 
fundamentally  sure  of  him  even  now.  His  letters  had  been  few 
and  brief;  heart-broken  —  naturally;  yet  scarcely  the  letters 
of  an  ardent  lover.  The  longest  of  the  four  had  given  her  a  poig- 
nant picture  of  Lance's  fimeral;  almost  as  if  he  knew  —  and  had 
written  with  intent  to  hurt  her.  In  addition  to  half  the  British 
officers  of  the  Station,  the  cemetery  had  been  thronged  with  the 
men  of  his  squadron,  Sikhs  and  Pathans  —  a  form  of  homage 
very  rare  in  India.  Many  of  them  had  cried  hke  children;  and 
for  himself,  Roy  confessed,  it  had  broken  him  all  to  bits.  He 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  393 

hardly  knew  how  to  write  of  it;  but  he  felt  she  would  care  to 
know. 

She  cared  so  intensely  that,  for  the  moment,  she  had  almost 
hated  him  for  stamping  on  her  memory  a  picture  that  would  not 
fade. 

His  next  letter  had  been  no  more  than  half  a  sheet.  That  was 
three  days  ago.  Another  was  overdue:  and  the  post  was  overdue 
also.  .  . 

Ah  —  at  last!  A  flash  of  scarlet  in  the  verandah  and  Fazl 
Ali  presenting  an  envelope  on  a  salver,  as  though  she  were  a 
goddess  and  the  letter  an  offering  at  her  shrine. 

It  was  a  shade  thicker  than  usual.  "Well,  it  ought  to  be.  She 
had  been  very  patient  with  his  brevity.  This  time,  it  seemed,  he 
had  something  to  say. 

Her  heart  stirred  perceptibly  as  she  opened  it,  and  read: 

Dearest  Girl, 

I'm  afraid  my  letters  have  been  very  poor  things.  Part  of  the 
reason  you  know  and  understand  —  as  far  as  anyone  can.  I'm  still 
dazed.  Everything's  out  of  perspective.  I  suppose  I  shall  take  it  in 
some  day. 

But  there's  another  reason  —  connected  with  him.  Perhaps  you 
can  guess.  I've  been  puzzled  all  along  about  you  two.  And  now  I 
know.  I  wonder  —  does  that  hurt  you?  It  hurts  me  horribly.  I 
need  hardly  say  he  didn't  give  you  away.  It  was  things  you  said  — 
and  Mrs.  Ranyard.  Anyhow,  that  last  evening  I  insisted  on  having 
the  truth.  But  I  couldn't  write  about  it  sooner  —  for  fear  of  sajdng 
things  I'd  regret  afterwards. 

Rose  —  what  possessed  you?  A  man  worth  fifty  of  me!  Of  course 
I  know  loving  doesn't  go  by  merit.  But  to  keep  him  on  tenterhooks, 
eating  his  heart  out  with  jealousy,  while  you  frankly  encouraged 
me  —  you  know  you  did.  And  I  —  never  dreaming;  only  puzzled 
at  the  way  he  sheered  off  after  the  first.  Between  us,  we  made  his 
last  month  of  life  a  torment;  though  he  never  let  me  guess  it  I 
don't  know  how  to  forgive  myself.  And,  to  be  honest,  it's  no  easy 
job  forgiving  you.  If  that  makes  you  angry,  if  you  think  me  a  prig, 
I  can't  help  it.  If  you'd  heard  him  —  all  those  hours  of  delirium  — 
you  might  understand. 

When  he  wasn't  raving,  he  had  only  one  thought  —  I  mustn't 
blame  you,  or  hurt  you  on  account  of  him.  I'm  trying  not  to.  But 


394  FAR  TO  SEEK 

if  I  know  you  at  all,  thai  will  hurt  more  than  anything  /  could  say. 
And  it's  only  right  I  should  tell  it  you. 

My  dearest  girl,  you  can't  think  how  difficult  —  how  strange  it 
feels  writing  to  you  like  this.  I  meant  to  wait  till  I  came  up.  But  I 
couldn't  write  naturally;  and  I  was  afraid  you  mightn't  under- 
stand. I'm  coming,  after  all,  sooner  than  I  thought  for.  My  fool  of 
a  body  has  given  out  —  and  Collins  won't  let  me  hang  on,  though  / 
feel  the  work  just  keeps  me  going.  It  must  be  Kohat  first,  because  of 
Paul.  Now  things  are  calming  down,  he  is  getting  away  to  be  mar- 
ried. The  quietest  possible  affair,  of  course;  but  he's  keen  I  should 
be  best  man  in  place  of  Lance.  And  I  needn't  say  how  I  value  the 
compliment. 

No  more  trouble  here,  or  Amritsar,  thank  God  —  and  a  few  cou- 
rageous men.  Martial  law  arrangements  are  being  carried  through  to 
admiration.  The  Lahore  CO.  seems  to  get  the  right  side  of  every- 
one. He  has  a  gift  for  the  personal  touch  that  is  everything  out  here; 
and  in  no  time  the  poor  deluded  beggars  in  the  city  were  shouting 
"Martial  law  ki  jai"  as  fervently  as  ever  they  shouted  for  Ghandi 
land  Co.  One  of  my  fellows  said  to  me:  "Our  people  don't  under- 
stand this  new  talk  of  Committee  ki  raj  and  Dyarchy  raj.  Too  many 
orders  make  confusion.  But  they  understand  Hukm  ki  raj."^  In 
fact,  it's  the  general  opinion  that  prompt  action  in  the  Punjab  has 
fairly  well  steadied  India  —  for  the  present  at  least. 

Well,  I  won't  write  more.  We'll  meet  soon;  and  I  don't  doubt 
you'll  explain  a  good  deal  that  still  puzzles  and  hurts  me.  If  I  seem 
changed,  you  must  make  allowances.  I  can't  yet  see  my  way  in  a 
world  empty  of  Lance.  But  we  must  help  each  other,  Rose  —  not 
pull  two  ways.  Don't  bother  to  write  long  explanations.  Things  will 
be  easier  face  to  face.  Yours  ever 

Rov 

*Yours  ever*  .  .  .  Did  he  mean  that?  He  certainly  meant  the 
rest.  Her  hands  dropped  in  her  lap;  and  she  sat  there,  staring 
before  her  —  startled,  angry,  more  profoundly  disturbed  and 
imsure  of  herself  than  she  had  felt  in  all  her  days.  Though  Roy 
had  tried  to  write  with  moderation,  there  were  sentences  that 
struck  at  her  vanity,  her  conscience,  her  heart.  Her  first,  over- 
whelming impulse  was  to  write  back  at  once  telling  him  he  need 
not  trouble  to  come  up,  as  the  engagement  was  off.  Accus- 
*  Government  by  order. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  395 

tomed  to  unquestioning  homage,  she  took  criticism  badly;  also  — 
undeniably  —  she  was  jealous  of  his  absorption  in  Lance.  The 
impulse  to  dismiss  him  was  mere  hurt  vanity.  And  the  queer 
thing  was  that,  deep  down  under  the  vanity  and  the  jealousy,  her 
old  feeling  for  Lance  seemed  again  to  be  stirring  in  its  sleep. 

The  love  of  such  a  man  leaves  no  light  impress  on  any  woman; 
and  Lance  had  unwittingly  achieved  two  master-strokes  calcu- 
lated to  deepen  that  impress  on  one  of  her  nature.  In  the  first 
place,  he  had  fronted  squarely  the  shock  of  her  defection  — 
patently  on  account  of  Roy.  She  could  see  him  now  —  standing 
near  her  mantelpiece,  his  eyes  sombre  with  passion  and  pain; 
no  word  of  reproach  or  of  pleading,  though  there  smouldered 
beneath  his  silence  the  fire  of  his  formidable  temper.  And  just 
because  he  had  neither  pleaded  nor  stormed,  she  had  come  peril- 
ously near  to  an  ignominious  volte  face,  from  which  she  had  been 
saved  only  by  something  in  him,  not  in  herself.  If  she  did  not 
know  it  then,  she  knew  it  now.  In  the  second  place,  he  had  died 
gallantly  —  again  on  account  of  Roy.  Snatched  utterly  out  of 
reach,  out  of  sight,  his  value  was  enhanced  tenfold:  and  now  to 
crown  all,  came  Roy's  revelation  of  his  amazing  magnanimity .  .  . 

Strange,  what  a  compUcated  affair  it  was,  for  some  people, 
this  simple,  natural  business  of  getting  married!  Was  it  part  of 
the  price  one  had  to  pay  for  being  beautiful?  Half  the  girls  one 
knew  sUpped  into  it  with  much  the  same  sort  of  thrill  as  they 
slipped  into  a  new  frock.  But  those  were  mostly  the  nice  plain 
little  things  who  subsided  gratefully  into  the  first  pair  of  arms 
held  out  to  them.  And  probably  they  had  their  reward.  In 
chastened  moods  Rose  did  not  quite  care  to  remember  how  many 
times  she  had  succumbed,  experimentally,  to  that  supreme  temp- 
tation. Good  Heavens!  What  would  her  precious  pair  think  of 
her  —  if  they  knew!  At  least,  she  had  the  grace  to  feel  proud 
\  that  the  tale  of  her  conquests  included  two  such  men. 

But  Lance  was  gone  —  on  account  of  Roy  —  where  no  spell 
of  hers  could  touch  him  any  more;  and  Roy  —  was  he  going 
too  ...  on  account  of  Lance  .  .  .  ?  Not  if  she  could  prevent 
him:  and  yet .  .  .  goodness  knew!  The  sigh  that  shivered  through 
her  sprang  from  a  deeper  source  than  mere  self-pity. 


396  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Rattle  of  rickshaw  wheels,  puffing  and  grunting  oijhampannies 
heralded  the  retiim  of  her  mother,  who  had  been  out  paying  a 
round  of  preliminary  calls.  It  took  eight  stalwart  men  and  a 
rickshaw  of  special  dimensions  to  convey  her  formidable  bulk 
up  and  down  Simla  roads;  and  affectionate  friends  hinted  that 
the  men  demanded  extra  pay  for  extra  weight! 

A  glance  at  her  florid  face  warned  Rose  there  was  trouble  in 
the  air. 

"Oh,  Rose  —  there  you  are.  I've  had  the  shock  of  my  life!" 
Waving  away  her  jhampannies,  she  sank  into  an  adjacent  cane 
chair  that  creaked  and  swayed  ominously  under  the  assault. 
"It  was  at  Mrs.  Tait's  —  My  dear  —  would  you  believe  it? 
That  fine  fiance  of  yours  —  after  worming  himself  into  our  good 
graces  —  turns  out  to  be  practically  a  half-caste.  A  superior  one, 
it  seems.  But  still  —  the  deceitfulness  of  the  man!  Going  about 
looking  like  everybody  else,  too!  And  grey-blue  eyes  into  the 
bargain!" 

At  that,  Rose  fatally  smiled,  in  spite  of  genuine  dismay. 

"I  can't  see  any  thing /wnwy  in  it!"  snapped  her  mother.  "I 
thought  you  'd  be  furious.  Did  you  ever  notice  —  ?  Had  you  the 
least  suspicion?  " 

"Not  the  least,"  Rose  answered,  with  unruffled  calm.  "I 
knew. " 

"You  knew  —  ?  Yet  you  were  fool  enough  to  accept  him 
and  wilfully  deceive  your  own  mother!  I  suppose  he  insisted, 
and  you — " 

"No.  /  insisted.  I  knew  my  own  mind.  And  I  wasn't  going 
to  have  him  upset  — " 

"But  if  I'm  upset  it  doesn't  matter  a  brass  farthing?'* 

"It  does.  Mother.  I'm  very  sorry  you've  had  such  a  Jar." 
Rose  had  some  ado  to  maintain  her  coolness;  but  she  knew  it  for 
her  one  unfaiUng  weapon.  "Of  course  I  meant  to  tell  you  later; 
in  fact,  as  soon  as  he  came  up  to  settle  things  finally  — " 

"Most  considerate  of  you!  And  when  he  does  come  up,  I  pro- 
pose to  settle  things  finally  — "  She  choked,  gulped,  and  glared. 
She  was  realising  .  .  .  "The  position  you've  put  me  in!  It's 
detestable!" 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  397 

Rose  sighed.  It  struck  her  that  her  own  position  was  not 
exactly  enviable.  "I've  said  I'm  sorry.  And  really  —  it  didn't 
seem  the  least  likely  —  Who  was  the  officious  instrument  of 
Fate?" 

"Young  Joe  Bradley,  of  the  Forests.  We  were  talking  of  the 
riots  and  poor  Major  Desmond,  and  Mrs.  Tait  happened  to 
mention  Roy  Sinclair.  Mr  Bradley  asked,  was  he  the  artist's 
son;  and  told  how  he  once  went  to  tea  there  —  when  his  mother 
was  staying  with  Lady  Despard  —  and  had  a  stand-up  fight  with 
Roy.  He  said  Roy's  mother  was  rather  a  swell  native  woman, 
a  pukka  native;  and  Roy  went  for  him  like  a  wild  thing  because 
he  called  her  an  ayah — " 

Again  Rose  smiled  faintly,  in  spite  of  herself.  "He  would!" 

"Would  he,  indeed!  That's  all  you  think  of!  —  though  you 
know  I've  got  a  weak  heart.  And  I  nearly  fainted  —  if  that's 
any  interest  to  you!  The  Bradley  boy  knew  nothing  —  about  us. 
But  Mrs.  Tait's  a  perfect  httle  sieve.  It'll  be  all  over  Simla 
to-morrow.  And  1  was  so  pleased  and  proud — "  Her  voice 
shook.  Tears  threatened.  "And  it's  so  awkward  — so  undigni- 
fied .  .  .  backing  out  — " 

"  My  dear  Mother,  I've  no  intention  whatever  of  backing  out." 

"And  I've  no  intention  whatCTcr  of  putting  up  with  a  half- 
caste  for  a  son-in-law. 

Rose  winced  at  that  and  drew  in  a  steadying  breath.  For  now, 
at  last,  the  cards  were  on  the  table.  She  was  committed  to  flat 
opposition  or  retreat  —  an  impasse  she  had  skilfully  avoided 
hitherto.  But  for  Roy's  sake  she  stood  her  ground. 

"It  was  —  rather  a  jar  when  he  told  me,"  she  admitted,  by  way 
of  concession  "But  truly,  he  is  different  —  if  you'll  only  listen, 
without  fuming  I  His  mother's  a  Rajput  of  the  highest  caste. 
Her  father  educated  her  almost  like  an  English  girl.  She  was 
only  seventeen  when  she  married  Sir  Nevil;  and  she  lived  alto- 
gether in  England  after  that.  In  everything,  but  being  her 
son,  Roy  is  practically  an  Englishman.  You  can't  class  him 
with  the  kind  of  people  we  associate  with  —  the  other  word  out 
here—" 

Very  patiently  and  tactfullv  she  put  forward  every  redeeming 


398  ■  FAR  TO  SEEK 

argument  in  his  favour  —  without  avail.  Mrs.  Elton,  broadly, 
had  right  on  her  side;  and  she  did  her  best  to  listen  coolly. 
But  the  gods  had  denied  her  the  gift  of  discrimination.  She  saw 
India  as  a  vast,  confused  jumble  of  Rajahs  and  hinnias  and 
servants  and  coolies  —  all  steeped  in  varying  depths  of  dirt  and 
dishonesty,  greed  and  shameless  ingratitude.  It  simply  did  not 
occur  to  her  that  sharp  distinctions  of  character,  tradition,  and 
culture  imderlay  the  more  or  less  uniform  tint  of  skin.  And  be- 
neath her  instinctive  antipathy  burned  furious  anger  with  Roy 
for  placing  her,  by  his  deceitfulness  (it  must  have  been  his), 
in  the  ironic  position  of  having  to  repudiate  the  engagement 
she  had  announced  with  such  eclat  only  three  weeks  ago.  The 
moment  she  had  recovered  her  breath,  she  returned  unshaken 
to  the  charge. 

"That's  very  fine  talk,  my  dear,  for  two  people  in  love.  Roy's 
a  half-caste:  that's  flat.  You  can't  wriggle  away  from  the  damn- 
ing fact  by  splitting  hairs  about  education  and  breeding.  Be- 
sides —  you  only  think  of  the  man.  But  are  you  prepared  for 
your  precious  first  baby  to  be  as  dark  as  a  native?  It's  more 
than  likely.  I  know  it  for  a  fact  —  " 

"Really,  Mother!  You're  a  trifle  previous."  Rose  was  cool 
no  longer;  a  slow,  unwilling  blush  flooded  her  face.  Her  mother 
had  struck  at  her  more  shrewdly  than  she  knew. 

"Well,  if  you  will  be  obstinate,  it's  my  duty  to  open  your  eyes; 
or  of  course  I  wouldn't  talk  so  to  an  immarried  girl.  There's 
another  thing  —  any  doctor  will  tell  you  —  a  particular  form 
of  consumption  carries  off  half  the  wretched  children  of  these 
mixed  marriages.  A  mercy,  perhaps;  but  think  of  it —  !  Your 
own!  And  you  know  perfectly  well  the  moral  deterioration  —  " 

"There's  none  of  that  about  /?oy."  Rose  grew  warmer  still. 
"And  you  know  perfectly  well  most  of  it  comes  from  the  circum- 
stances, the  stigma,  the  type  of  parent.  But  you  can  say  what 
you  please.  I'm  of  age.  I  love  him.  I  intend  to  marry  him." 

"Well,  you  won't  do  it  from  my  house.  I  wash  my  hands  of 
the  whole  affair."  She  rose,  upon  her  ultimatum;  aquiver  with 
righteous  anger,  even  to  the  realistic  cherries  in  her  hat.  The 
girl  rose,  also,  outwardly  composed,  inwardly  dismayed. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  399 

"Thank  you.  Now  I  know  where  I  stand.  And  you  won't 
say  a  word  to  Roy.  You  mustn't  —  really  — "  She  almost 
pleaded.  "He  worships  his  mother  in  quite  the  old-fashioned 
way.  He  simply  couldn't  see  —  the  other  point  of  view.  Be- 
sides —  he's  ill  —  imhappy.  Whatever  your  attitude  forces  one 
to  say,  can  only  be  said  by  me." 

"I  don't  take  orders  from  my  own  daughter,"  Mrs.  Elton 
retorted  ungraciously.  She  was  in  no  humour  for  bargaining  or 
dictation.  "But  I'm  sure  I've  no  wish  to  talk  to  him.  I'll  give 
you  a  week  or  ten  days  to  make  your  plans.  But  whenever  you 
have  him  here,  I  shall  be  out.  And  if  you  come  to  yoiu:  senses  — 
you  can  let  me  know." 

On  that,  she  departed,  leaving  Rose  feeling  battered  and 
shaken  and  horribly  uncertam  what  —  in  the  face  of  that  bomb- 
shell—  she  intended  to  do;  she,  who  had  made  Lance  suffer 
cruelly  and  evoked  a  tragic  situation  between  him  and  Roy, 
largely  in  order  to  avoid  a  clash  that  would  have  been  as  nothing 
compared  with  this  ...  1 

Her  sensations  were  in  a  whirl.  But  somehow — she  must  pull 
through.  Home  life  was  becoming  intolerable.  And  —  for  several 
cogent  reasons  —  she  wanted  Roy.  If  need  be,  she  would  tell 
him,  diplomatically;  dissociating  herself  completely  from  her 
mother's  attitude.  And  yet  —  she  had  said  things  that  would 
stick;  hateful  things,  that  might  be  true  ... 

Decidedly,  she  could  not  write  him  a  long  letter;  only  enough 
to  bring  him  back  to  her  in  a  relenting  mood.  Sitting  down  again, 
she  unearthed  from  her  black  and  silver  bag  a  fountain  pen  and 
half  a  sheet  of  paper. 

My  darling  Roy  (she  wrote) : 

Your  letter  did  hurt  —  badly.  Perhaps  I  deserved  it.  All  I  can 
say,  till  we  meet,  is  —  forgive  me,  if  you  can  —  because  of  Lance. 
It's  rather  odd  —  though  you  are  my  lover,  and  I  suppose  you  do  care 
still  —  I  can  think  of  no  stronger  appeal  than  that.  He  cared  so.  for 
us  both,  in  his  big,  splendid  way.  Can't  we  stand  by  each  other? 
You  ask  me  to  make  allowances.  Will  you  be  generous,  and  do  the 
same  on  a  larger  scale  for  your  sincerely  loving  (and  not  altogether 
worthless)  Rose 


Chapter  XII 

She  had  a  step  that  walked  unheard. 
It  made  the  stones  like  grass; 
But  that  light  step  had  crushed  a  heart 
As  light  as  thai  step  was. 

W.  H.  DAvm 

At  last,  Roy  was  actiially  coming.  The  critical  moment  was  upon 
them:  and  Rose  sat  alone  in  the  drawing-room  awaiting  him. 

Her  mother  was  out;  had  arranged  to  be  out  for  the  evening 
ako.  The  strain  between  them  still  continued;  and  it  told  most 
on  Rose.  The  cat-like  element  in  her  loved  comfort;  and  an 
imdercurrent  of  clash  was  pecuharly  irritating  in  her  present 
sore,  uncertain  state  of  heart.  Weeks  of  it,  she  knew,  would 
scarcely  leave  a  dent  on  her  mother's  leathern  temperament. 
When  it  came  to  a  tug  the  tougher  nature  scored,  which  was 
one  reason  why  she  had  so  skilfully  avoided  tugs  hitherto. 

True,  she  was  of  age:  and  her  father's  small  legacy  gave  her  a 
measure  of  independence.  But  how  could  one  set  about  getting 
married  in  the  face  of  open  opposition?  And  —  how  keep  the 
truth  from  Roy?  Or  tone  it  down,  so  that  he  would  not  go  of! 
at  a  tangent  straightaway?  Assuredly  the  Fates  had  conspired 
to  strip  her  headlong  romance  of  all  its  gilded  trappings.  But 
imquestionably,  her  moment  for  marriage  had  come.  She  was 
sick  to  death  of  the  Anglo-Indian  round  —  from  the  unattached 
standpoint,  at  least.  Roy  fascinated  her  as  few  men  had  done; 
and  she  had  been  deliberately  trying  to  ignore  the  effect  of  her 
mother's  brutal  frankness.  Their  commg  together  again,  in 
these  changed  conditions,  would  be  the  ultimate  test.  Such  a 
chasm  of  distance  seemed  to  yawn  between  that  tender  parting 
in  her  boudoir  and  this  critical  reunion  — in  another  world  .  .  . 

Sounds  of  arrival  brought  her  to  her  feet;  but  she  checked  the 
natural  impulse  to  welcome  him  in  the  verandah.  Her  innate 
sense  of  drama  shrank  from  possible  awkwardness  —  a  false  step, 
at  the  start. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  401 

And  now  he  appeared  in  the  doorway  —  very  straight  and  slim 
in  his  grey  suit  with  the  sorrowful  black  band  on  his  arm. 

"Rose!"  he  cried  —  and  stood  gazing  at  her,  pulses  hammer- 
ing, brain  dizzy.  The  mere  sight  of  her  brought  back  too  vividly 
the  memory  of  those  April  days  that  he  had  been  resolutely 
shutting  out  of  his  mind. 

His  pause  —  the  shock  of  his  changed  aspect  —  held  her  mo- 
tionless also.  He  looked  older,  more  sallow;  his  sensitive  mouth 
compressed;  no  lurking  gleam  in  his  eyes.  He  seemed  actually 
less  good-looking  than  she  remembered;  for  anguish  is  no 
beautifier. 

So  standing,  they  mutely  confronted  the  change  in  themselves 
—  in  each  other;  then  Rose  swept  forward,  both  hands  held 
out. 

"Roy  —  my  darling  —  what  you  must  have  been  through  1 
Can  you  —  will  you  —  in  spite  of  all  —  ?" 

Next  moment,  in  his  silent,  vehement  fashion,  he  was  straining 
her  to  him;  kissing  her  eyes,  her  hair,  her  lips;  not  in  simple 
lover's  ecstasy,  but  in  a  fervour  of  repressed  passion,  touched 
with  tragedy,  with  pain  .  .  . 

Then  he  held  her  from  him,  a  little,  to  refresh  his  tired  eyes 
with  the  sheer  beauty  of  her;  and  was  struck  at  once  by  the 
absence  of  colour;  the  wide  black  sash,  the  black  velvet  round 
her  throat  and  hair. 

He  touched  the  velvet,  looking  his  question.  She  nodded, 
drawing  in  her  Up  to  steady  it. 

"I  felt  —  I  must.  You  don't  mind?" 

"Mind  —  ?  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  really  mind 
things  any  more." 

His  face  worked.  That  queer  dizziness  took  him  again.  With 
an  incoherent  apology  he  sat  down  rather  abruptly,  and  leaned 
forward,  his  head  between  his  hands,  hiding  the  emotion  he 
could  not  altogether  control. 

Rose  stood  beside  hun,  feelmg  helpless  and  vaguely  aggrieved. 
He  had  just  got  back  to  her,  after  a  two  weeks'  partmg;  and  he 
sat  there  lost  in  an  access  of  grief  that  left  her  quite  out  of 
account.  Inadvertently  there  flashed  the  thought,  'Whatever 


403  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Lance  might  have  suffered,  he  would  not  succumb.'  It  startled 
her.  She  had  never  so  compared  them  before  .  .  , 

Then,  looking  down  at  his  bowed  head,  compimction  seized 
her,  and  tenderness,  that  rarely  entered  into  her  feeling  for  men. 
She  could  think  of  nothing  to  say  that  would  not  sound  idiot- 
ically commonplace.  So  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  hair,  and  moved 
it  caressingly  now  and  then. 

She  felt  a  tremor  go  through  him.  He  half  withdrew  his  head, 
checked  himseK,  and  capturing  her  hand  pressed  it  to  his  lips, 
that  were  hot  and  feverish. 

"Roy  —  what  is  it?  What  went  wrong?"  she  asked  softly. 

He  looked  up  now  with  a  fair  imitation  of  a  smile.  "Just  — 
an  old  memory.  It  was  dear  of  you.  Ungracious  of  me."  Pain 
and  perplexity  went  from  her.  She  sUpped  to  her  knees  beside 
him  and  his  arm  enclosed  her.  "Sorry  to  behave  hke  this.  But 
I'm  not  very  fit.  And  —  seeing  you  brought  it  all  back  so  sharply  1 
It's  been  —  a  bit  of  a  strain  this  last  week.  A  letter  from  Thea 
—  brave,  of  course;  but  broken,  utterly.  The  wedding  too:  and 
that  beast  of  a  journey  fairly  finished  me." 

She  leaned  closer,  comforting  him  by  the  feel  of  her  nearness. 
Then  her  practical  brain  suggested  needs  more  pedestrian,  none 
the  less  essential. 

"Dearest  —  you're  simply  exhausted.  How  about  tea  —  or 
a  peg?" 

He  pleaded  for  a  peg,  if  permissible.  She  fetched  it  herself; 
made  tea;  pHed  him  with  sandwiches  and  sugared  cakes,  for 
which  he  still  retained  his  boyish  weakness. 

But  talking  proved  difl5cult.  There  were  uncomfortable  gaps. 
In  their  first  uplifted  moment  all  had  seemed  well.  Love-making 
was  simple,  elemental,  satisfying.  Beyond  the  initial  glamour 
and  passion  of  coiu-tship  they  had  scarcely  adventured,  when 
the  fabric  of  their  world  was  shattered  by  the  startling  events 
of  those  four  days.  Both  were  realising  —  as  they  stepped  cau- 
tiously among  the  fragments  —  that,  for  all  their  surface  inti- 
macy, they  were  still  strangers  underneath. 

Roy  took  refuge  in  talk  about  Lahore;  the  high  tribute  paid 
to  the  conduct  of  all  troops  —  British  and  Indian  —  and  police. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  403 

under  peculiarly  exasperatmg  circumstances;  the  C.O.'s  con- 
viction that  unless  sterner  measures  were  taken  —  and  adhered 
to  —  there  would  be  more  outbreaks,  at  shorter  intervals,  better 
organised .  .  , 

He  hoped  her  charming  air  of  interest  was  genuine,  but  felt 
by  no  means  sure.  And  all  the  while  he  was  craving  to  know 
what  she  had  to  say  for  herself;  yet  doubting  whether  he  could 
stand  the  lightest  touch  on  his  open  wound.  Lance  had  begged 
him  not  to  hurt  her.  Had  it  ever  occurred  to  that  devout  lover 
how  sharply  she  might  hurt  him? 

Tea  and  a  restful  hour  in  an  armchair  eased  the  strain  a  little. 
Then  Rose  suggested  the  garden,  knowing  him  susceptible  to 
the  large  healing  influences  of  earth  and  sky;  also  with  diplo- 
matic intent  to  draw  him  away  from  the  house  before  her  mother's 
meteoric  visitation. 

And  she  was  only  just  in  time.  The  rattle  of  rickshaw  wheels 
came  up  the  main  path  two  minutes  after  they  had  turned  out 
of  it  towards  a  favourite  nook,  which  she  had  strangely  grown 
to  love  in  the  last  two  weeks. 

"Poor  darling!  You've  just  missed  Mother!'*  She  condoled 
with  him  smiling  sidelong  imder  her  lashes;  and  she  almost 
blessed  her  maternal  enemy  for  bringing  back  the  familiar  gleam 
into  his  eyes. 

"Bad  luck!  Ought  we  to  go  in  again?" 

"  Gracious,  no !  She's  only  tearing  home  to  diange  for  an  early 
dinner  at  Penshurst  and  the  theatre.  Anyway,  please  note, 
you're  immune  from  the  formaUties.  We're  going  to  have  a 
peaceful  time,  quite  independent  of  Simla  rushings.  Just  our- 
selves to  ourselves." 

"Good." 

It  was  an  asset  with  men  —  second  only  to  her  beauty  — 
this  gift  for  creating  a  restful  atmosphere. 

Her  nook,  in  an  angle  above  the  narrow  path,  was  a  grassy 
bank  lookmg  across  crumpled  ranges,  velvet-soft  in  the  level 
light,  to  the  still  purity  of  the  snows. 

"Rather  nice,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "I'm  not  given  to  mooning 
out  of  doors;  but  I've  spent  several  evenings  here  —  lately." 


404  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"It's  sanctuary,"  Roy  murmured;  but  his  sigh  was  tinged  with 
apprehension.  Flinging  off  his  hat  he  redined  full  length  on  the 
gentle  slope,  hands  under  his  head,  and  let  the  healing  rays  flow 
into  the  deeps  of  his  troubled  being. 

Rose  sat  upright  beside  him,  her  fingers  locked  loosely  round 
one  raised  knee.  She  was  troubled  too;  and  quite  at  a  loss  how 
to  begin. 

"  So  you've  not  been  gomg  out  much?  "  he  asked,  after  a  pro- 
longed pause. 

"No  —  how  could  I  —  with  you,  so  unhappy,  down  there  — 
and  .  .  .  ?"  She  deliberately  met  his  eyes;  and  the  look  in  them 
impelled  her  to  ask:  "  What  is  it,  Roy — lurking  in  yoiu:  mind?  '* 

"Ami  — to  be  frank?'* 

She  shivered.  "It  sounds  —  rather  chilly.  But  I  suppose 
we'd  better  take  our  cold  plimge  —  and  get  it  over!" 

"Well," — he  hesitated  palpably  "It  was  only  a  natural 
wonder  —  if  you  care  .  ,  all  that .  .  .  now  he's  gone,  how  could 
you  dehberately  hurt  him  so  —  while  he  lived?  " 

She  drew  in  her  lip.  It  was  going  to  be  more  unsteadying  than 
she  had  foreseen. 

"How  can  a  woman  explain  to  a  man  the  simple  fact  that  she 
is  incurably  —  perhaps  unforgivably  —  a  woman?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  hoped  you  could  — up  to  a  point,"  said 
Roy,  looking  away  to  the  snows  and  remembering,  suddenly, 
that  was  where  he  ought  to  be  now  —  with  Lance:  always  Lance: 
no  other  thought  or  presence  seemed  vital  to  him,  these  days. 
Yet  Rose  remained  beautiful  and  desirable;  and  clearly  she  loved 
him. 

"It  doesn't  make  things  easier,  you  know,"  she  was  say- 
ing, in  her  cool,  low  voice,  "  to  feel  you  are  patently  regretting 
events  that,  imhappily,  did  hurt  —  him;  but  also  —  gave  me 
to  you  ..." 

Her  beauty,  her  evident  pain,  penetrated  the  settled  misery 
that  enveloped  him  like  an  atmosphere. 

"Darling  —  forgive  me!"  He  reached  out,  pulling  her  hands 
apart  and  his  fingers  closed  hard  on  hers.  "I'm  only  trying 
—  climisily  —  to  imderstand  ..." 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  405 

"And  goodness  knows  I'm  willing  to  help  you,"  she  sighed, 
returning  his  pressure.  "But  — I'm  afraid  the  little  I  can  say 
for  myself  won't  do  much  to  regild  my  halo  —  if  there's  any  of  it 
leftl  I  gather  you  aren't  very  well  up  in  women,  or  girls, Roy?" 

"No  —  I'm  not.  Perhaps  it  makes  me  seem  to  you  a  bit  of  a 
fool?" 

"Quite  the  reverse.  It's  all  along  been  a  part  of  your  charm." 

"My  —  charm?" 

There  was  more  of  tenderness  than  amusement  in  her  low 
laugh.  "Precisely!  If  you  didn't  possess  —  some  magnetic  qual- 
ity, could  I  have  been  drawn  away  from  a  man  —  like  Lance, 
when  I'd  nearly  made  up  my  mind  —  to  face  the  music?" 

For  answer,  he  kissed  her  captured  hand. 

Then  "Roy,  if  it  doesn't  hurt  too  much,"  she  urged,  "will 
you  tell  me  first  —  just — what  Lance  said?  " 

It  would  hurt,  horridly  But  it  was  as  well  she  should  know; 
and  not  a  word  need  he  withhold.  Could  there  be  a  finer  tribute 
to  his  friend?  It  was  his  own  share  in  their  last  unforgettable 
talk  that  could  not  be  reproduced. 

"Yes  —  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said.  And,  his  half -closed  eyes  rest- 
ing on  the  sunlit  hills,  he  told  her,  in  a  voice  from  which  all  feel- 
ing was  carefully  expunged.  Only  so  could  he  achieve  the  telling: 
and  she  listened  without  interruption,  for  which  he  felt  grateful, 
exceedingly 

When  it  was  over,  he  merely  moved  his  head  and  looked  up  at 
her;  and  she  returned  his  look,  her  eyes  heavy  with  tears. 

Mutually  their  fingers  tightened. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "It  makes  me  ashamed;  but  it  makes 
me  proud." 

"It  made  me  angry  and  bewildered,"  said  Roy.  "If  you 
really  were .  .  .  coming  his  way,  what  the  devil  did  /  do  to 
upset  it  all?  Of  course  I  admired  you;  and  I  was  interested  — 
on  his  account.  But  —  I  had  no  thought  —  I  was  absorbed  in 
other  things  —  " 

She  nodded  slowly,  not  looking  at  him.  "Quite  so.  And  I 
suppose  —  being  me  —  I  didn't  choose  that  a  man  should  dance 
with  me,  ride  with  me,  obviously  admire  me,  and  yet  remain 


406  FAR  TO  SEEK 

absorbed  in  other  things.  And  —  being  you  —  of  course  it 
never  struck  you  that,  for  my  kind  of  girl,  your  provocatively 
casual  attitude  almost  amounted  to  a  challenge.  Besides  —  as 
I  said  —  you  were  charming;  you  were  different.  Perhaps  —  if 
I'd  felt  a  shade  less  sure  —  of  Lance,  if  he'd  had  the  wit  even  to 
seem  keen  on  someone  else ...  he  might  have  saved  himself. 
As  it  was  —  you  were  irresistible." 

She  heard  him  grit  his  teeth;  and  turned  with  swift  compunc- 
tion. "My  poor  Roy!  Am  I  jarring  you  badly?  I  suppose,  if  I 
talked  till  midnight,  I'd  never  succeed  in  making  a  man  like 
you  imderstand  how  purely  instinctive  it  all  is  —  the  lust  of 
admiration,  the  impulse  to  test  one's  power.  Analysed,  like  this, 
it  sounds  cold-blooded.  But,  it's  just  —  second  nature.  He  — 
Lance  —  understood  up  to  a  point.  That's  why  he  was  aggres- 
sive that  day:  oh  —  furiously  angry;  all  because  of  you.  The 
pair  you  are!  He  said,  if  I  fooled  you,  and  didn't  play  fair, 
he'd  back  out,  or  insist  on  a  pukka  engagement.  And  —  yes  — 
it  did  have  the  wrong  effect.  It  made  me  wonder  —  if  I  could 
marry  a  man,  however  splendid,  who  owned  such  exacting  stand- 
ards and  such  a  hot  temper.  And  there  were  you  —  an  unknown 
quantity,  with  the  Banter- Wrangle  discreetly  in  pursuit.  A 
supreme  inducement  in  itself!  Yes,  distinctly,  that  afternoon  was 
a  turning-point.  Just  Lance  losing  his  temper  and  you  coolly 
forgetting  an  arrangement  with  me  —  " 

She  paused,  looking  back  over  it  all;  felt  Roy's  hold  slacken 
and  imobtrusively  withdrew  her  hand. 

"  Soon  after  Kapurthala,  he  was  angry  again.  And  that  time, 
I'm  afraid  I  reminded  him  that  our  engagement  was  only  '  on,' 
conditionally;  that  if  he  started  worrying  at  me,  it  would  soon 
be  unconditionally  off  —  " 

"So  it  should  have  been!"  Roy  jerked  up  on  to  his  elbow  and 
confronted  her  with  challenging  directness.  "Once  you  could 
speak  like  that,  feel  like  that,  you'd  no  right  to  keep  him  hanging 
on  —  hoping,  when  there  was  practically  no  hope.  It  wasn't 
playing  the  game  —  " 

This  time  she  kept  her  eyes  averted;  and  a  slow  colour  in- 
vaded her  face.  There  was  a  point  beyond  which  feminine  frank- 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  407 

ness  could  not  go.  She  could  not  —  would  not  —  tell  this  un- 
flatteringly  critical  lover  of  hers  that  it  was  not  in  her  nature  to 
let  the  one  man  go  till  she  felt  morally  secure  of  the  other. 

Roy  had  only  a  profile  view  of  her  warm  cheek,  her  sensitive 
nostril  aquiver,  her  lip  drawn  in.  And  when  she  spoke,  it  was  in 
the  tense,  passionate  tone  of  that  evening  at  AnarkaUi. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  it's  easy  work  sitting  in  judgment  on  other  people. 
I  told  you  I  hadn't  much  of  a  case  —  I  asked  you  to  make  allow- 
ances. You  clearly  can't.  He  asked  you  —  not  to  hiu-t  me.  You 
clearly  feel  you  must.  Yet  —  in  justice  to  you  both  —  I'm  doing 
what  I  can.  I've  never  before  condescended  to  explain  myself  — 
almost  excuse  myself  —  to  any  man;  and  I  certainly  never  shall 
again.  It  strikes  me  you'd  better  apply  your  own  indictment  — 
to  yoiu"  own  case.  If  you  can  think  and  feel  —  as  you  seem  to  do 
—  better  face  the  fact  and  be  done  with  it  —  " 

But  Roy,  startled  and  penitent,  was  sitting  upright  by  now: 
and,  when  she  would  have  risen,  he  seized  her,  crushing  her  to 
him,  would  she  or  no.  In  her  pain  and  anger  she  more  than  ever 
drew  him.  In  his  utter  heart-loneliness  he  more  than  ever  needed 
her.  And  the  reminder  of  Lance  crowned  all. 

"My  darling  —  don't  go  off  at  a  tangent,  that  way,"  he  im- 
plored her,  his  lips  against  her  hair.  "For  me  —  it's  a  sacred 
bond.  It  can't  be  snapped  in  a  fit  of  temper  —  like  a  bit  of 
knotted  thread.  I'll  accept  —  what  T  can't  see  clear.  We'll 
stand  by  each  other,  as  you  said.  Learn  one  another  —  Rose  —  1 
My  dearest  girl  —  don't  —  I " 

He  strained  her  closer,  in  mingled  bewilderment  and  distress. 
For  Rose  —  who  trod  lightly  on  the  hearts  of  men  —  Rose,  the 
serene  and  self-assured,  was  sobbing  brokenly  m  his  arms  .  .  . 

Before  the  end  of  the  evening  they  were  more  or  less  themselves 
agam;  the  threatened  storm  averted;  the  trouble  patched  up 
and  siunmarily  dismissed,  as  only  lovers  can  dismiss  a  cloild  that 
intrudes  upon  their  heaven  of  blue. 


Chapter  XIII 

Le  pire  douleur  est  de  ne  pouvoir  pleurer  ce  qu'on  a  perdu. 

De  Coulevain 

But,  as  days  passed,  both  grew  increasingly  aware  of  the  patch; 
and  both  very  carefully  concealed  the  fact.  They  spent  a  week 
of  peaceful  seclusion  from  Simla  and  her  restless  activities.  Roy 
scarcely  set  eyes  on  Mrs.  Elton;  but  —  Rose  having  skiKully 
prepared  the  ground  —  he  merely  gave  her  credit  for  her  moth- 
er's unusual  display  of  tact. 

Neither  was  in  the  vein  for  dances  or  tennis  parties.  They 
rode  out  to  Mashobra  and  Fagu.  They  spent  long  days,  pic- 
nicking in  the  Glen.  Roy  discovered,  with  satisfaction,  that  Rose 
had  a  weakness  for  being  read  to  and  a  fair  taste  in  literature,  so 
long  as  it  was  not  poetry.  He  also  discovered  —  with  a  twinge  of 
dismay  —  that  if  they  were  many  hours  together,  he  found  read- 
ing easier  than  talking. 

On  the  whole,  they  spent  a  week  that  should  have  been  ideal 
for  new-made  lovers;  yet,  at  heart,  both  felt  vaguely  troubled 
and  disillusioned. 

Pain  and  parting  and  harsh  realities  seemed  to  have  rubbed 
the  bloom  off  their  exotic  romance.  And  for  Rose  the  trouble 
struck  deep.  She  had  deliberately  willed  to  put  aside  her  own 
innate  shrinking  from  the  Indian  strain  in  Roy.  But  she  reck- 
oned without  the  haunting  effect  of  her  mother's  plain  speaking. 
At  first  she  had  flatly  ignored  it;  then  she  fortified  herself  by 
devising  a  practical  plan  for  getting  away  to  a  friend  in  Kashmir. 
There  was  a  sister  in  Simla  going  to  join  her.  They  could  travel 
together.  Roy  could  follow  on.  And  there  they  two  could  be 
quietly  married  without  fuss  or  audible  comment  from  their 
talkative  little  world. 

It  was  not  precisely  her  idea  of  the  manner  in  which  she  — 
Rose  Arden  —  should  be  given  in  marriage.  But  the  main  point 
was  that  —  if  she  could  help  it  —  her  mother  should  not  score 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  409 

in  the  matter  of  Roy.  Could  she  help  it?  That  was  the  question 
persistently  knocking  at  her  heart. 

And  she  was  only  a  degree  less  troubled  by  the  perverse  re- 
vival of  her  feeling  for  Lance.  Vanished  —  his  hold  on  her  deeper 
nature  seemed  mysteriously  to  strengthen.  Memories  crowded 
in,  unbidden,  of  their  golden  time  together  just  before  Roy  ap- 
peared on  the  scene;  till  she  almost  arrived  at  blaming  her  deUb- 
erately  chosen  lover  for  having  come  between  them  and  landed 
her  in  her  present  distracting  position.  For  now  it  was  the  ghost 
of  Lance  that  threatened  to  come  between  her  and  Roy;  and 
the  irony  of  it  cut  her  to  the  quick.  If  she  had  dealt  unfairly 
by  these  two  men,  whose  standards  were  leagues  above  her  own, 
she  was  not,  it  seemed,  to  escape  her  share  of  suffering  .  .  . 

For  Roy's  heart  also  knew  the  chill  of  secret  disillusion.  The 
ardour  and  thrill  of  his  courtship  seemed  fatally  to  have  suffered 
eclipse.  When  they  were  together,  the  lure  of  her  was  potent 
still.  It  was  in  the  gaps  between  that  he  felt  irked,  more  and  more 
by  incipient  criticism.  In  the  course  of  that  first  talk  she  had 
unwittingly  stripped  herself  of  the  glamour  that  was  more  than 
half  her  charm;  and  at  bottom  his  Eastern  subconsciousness 
was  jarred  by  her  casual  attitude  to  the  sanctities  of  the  man  and 
woman  relation  as  instilled  into  him  by  his  mother.  When  he 
quarrelled  with  her  treatment  of  Lance,  she  saw  it  merely  as  a 
rather  exaggerated  concern  for  his  friend.  There  was  that  in 
it,  of  course;  but  there  was  more.  Yet  undeniably  Desmond's 
urgent  plea  influenced  his  own  honest  effort  to  ignore  the  still, 
small  voice  within  him,  that  protested  against  the  whole  affair. 
At  another  time  he  would  have  taken  it  for  a  dear  intimation 
from  his  mother:  but  she  seemed  utterly  to  have  lost  him,  or 
deserted  him,  these  days.  All  he  could  firmly  hold  on  to  at  pres' 
ent  was  his  loyalty  to  Lance,  his  duty  to  Rose;  and  both  seemed 
to  point  in  the  same  direction. 

It  struck  him  as  strange  that  she  did  not  mention  the  weddmg; 
and  she  had  been  so  full  of  it  that  very  first  evening.  Once, 
when  he  casually  asked  if  any  fixtures  were  decided  on  yet,  she 
had  smiled  and  answered:  "No;  not  yet."  And  some  other 
topic  had  intervened. 


410  FAR  TO  SEEK 

It  was  only  a  degree  less  strange  that  she  spoke  so  often  of 
Lance,  without  attempting  to  disguise  her  admiration.  And  in 
himself  —  strangest  of  all  —  this  new  and  surprising  manifesta- 
tion stirred  no  flicker  of  jealousy.  It  seemed  a  link,  rather,  draw- 
ing them  nearer  together.  She  frankly  encouraged  talk  of  their 
school-days  that  involved  fresh  revealings  of  Lance  at  every  turn: 
talk  that  was  anodyne  or  anguish  according  to  his  mood. 

She  also  encouraged  him  to  unearth  his  deserted  novel  and 
read  her  the  opening  chapters.  In  Lahore,  he  had  longed  for 
that  moment;  now  he  feared  lest  it  too  sharply  emphasise  ^ 
their  inner  apartness.  For  the  Indian  atmosphere  was  strong  in 
the  book:  and  the  Indian  atmosphere  jarred.  The  effect  of  the 
riots  had  merely  been  repressed.  It  still  simmered  underneath. 
Only  once  she  had  broken  out  on  the  subject;  and  had  been  dis- 
tinctly restive  when  he  demurred  at  the  injustice  of  sweeping 
indictments  against  the  whole  country  because  a  handful  of 
extremists  were  trying  to  wreck  the  ship.  Personally  he  blamed 
England  for  virtually  assisting  in  the  process.  It  had  come  near 
to  an  altercation  —  a  very  rare  event  with  Rose:  and  it  had  left 
Roy  feeling  more  unsettled  than  ever. 

A  few  readings  of  his  novel  made  him  feel  more  uncomfortable 
still.  Like  all  true  artists,  he  listened,  as  he  read,  with  the  mind 
of  his  audience;  and  intuitively,  he  felt  her  antagonism  to  the 
Indian  element  in  his  characters,  his  writing,  his  theme. 

For  three  mornings  he  persisted.  Then  he  gave  it  up. 

They  were  sitting  in  their  nook;  Rose  leaning  back,  her  eyes 
half  closed,  gazing  across  the  valley.  In  the  middle  of  a  fla- 
grantly Indian  chapter,  he  broke  off:  determined  to  take  it 
lightly;  not  to  make  a  grievance  of  it:  equally  determined  she 
should  hear  no  more. 

For  a  few  seconds  she  did  not  realise .  .  .  Then  she;  turned 
and  looked  up  at  him.  "Well  —  ?  Is  that  all?" 

"Yes.  That's  all  —  so  far  as  you're  concerned!" 

Her  brows  went  up  in  the  old  beguiling  way.  He  felt  her 
trying  to  hide  her  thought,  and  held  up  a  warning  finger. 

"Now  don't  put  it  on!  Frankly  —  isn't  she  relieved?  Hasn't 
she  borne  the  infliction  like  a  saint?  " 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  411 

The  blood  stirred  visibly  under  her  pallor.  "It  was  not  an 
infliction.  Your  writing's  wonderful.  Quite  uncanny  —  the  way 
you  get  inside  people  and  things.  If  there's  more  —  go  on." 

"There's  a  lot  more.  But  I'm  not  going  on  —  even  at  Her 
Majesty's  express  command!  —  Look  here,  Rose  —  let  be." 
He  suddenly  changed  his  tone.  "I  can  feel  how  it  bothers  you. 
So  —  why  pretend  .  .  .  ?  " 

She  looked  down;  twisting  her  opal  ring,  making  the  delicate 
colours  flash  and  change. 

"It's  a  pity  —  isn't  it?  "  —  she  seemed  to  muse  aloud  —  "  that 
more  than  half  of  life  is  made  up  of  pretending.  It  becomes 
rather  a  delicate  problem  —  fixing  boimdary  lines.  I  do  admire 
your  gift,  Roy.  And  you're  so  intensely  human.  But  I  confess, 
I  —  I  am  jerked  by  parts  of  your  theme.  Doesn't  —  all  this  ani- 
mosity and  open  vilification  not  affect  your  own  feeling  about  — 
things,  the  least  bit?" 

"Yes.  It  does.  Only  —  not  in  your  way.  It  makes  me  un- 
happy, because  the  real  India  —  snowed  under  with  specious 
talk  and  bitter  invective  —  has  less  chance  now  than  ever  of 
being  understood  by  those  who  can't  see  below  the  surface.'* 

"Me  —  for  instance?" 

He  sighed.  "Oh,  scores  and  scores  of  you,  here  and  at  Home. 
And  scores  of  others,  who  have  far  less  excuse.  That's  why  one 
feels  bound  to  do  what  one  can  ..." 

His  thoughts  on  that  score  went  too  deep  for  utterance. 

But  Rose  was  engaged  in  her  own  purely  personal  deliber- 
ations. 

"  You  might  want  to  come  out  again  .  .  .  afterwards?  " 

"Yes  —  I  should  hope  to.  Besides ...  there  are  my 
cousins ..." 

"Indian  ones  —  ?" 

"Yes.  Very  clever.  Very  charming.  Rose  — you've  been  six 
years  in  India.  Have  you  ever  met,  in  a  friendly  way,  ^  culti- 
vated, well-bom  Indian  —  man  or  woman?  '* 

"N-no.  Not  worth  mentioning.'* 

"And  .  .  .  you  haven't  wanted  to?" 

He  felt  her  shrink  from  the  direct  question. 


412  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Why  press  the  point,  Roy?  It  needn't  make  any  real  differ- 
ence —  need  it  —  between  you  and  me?  " 

Her  counter-question  was  still  more  direct,  more  searching. 

"Perhaps  not  —  now,"  he  said.  "It  might...  make  a 
lot .  .  .  afterwards  —  " 

At  that  critical  jimcture  their  talk  was  interrupted  by  a  peon 
with  a  note  that  required  immediate  attention:  and  Roy,  left 
alone,  felt  increasingly  disillusioned  and  dismayed. 

Later  on,  to  his  relief.  Rose  suggested  a  ride.  She  seemed  sud- 
denly in  a  more  elusive  mood  than  he  had  experienced  since 
their  engagement.  She  did  not  refer  again  to  his  novel,  or  to 
the  thorny  topic  of  India;  and  their  parting  embrace  was  chilled 
by  a  shadow  of  constraint. 

"How  would  it  be  —  afterwards?"  he  wondered,  riding  back 
to  the  Club,  at  a  foot's  pace,  feeling  tired  and  feverish  and  gravely 
puzzled  as  to  whether  it  might  not  —  on  all  counts  —  be  the 
greater  wrong  to  make  a  fetish  of  a  bond  so  rashly  forged. 

To-day,  very  distinctly,  he  was  aware  of  the  inner  tug  he  had 
been  tr^dng  to  ignore.  And  to-day  it  was  more  imperative; 
less  easily  stilled.  Could  it  be .  .  .  veritably,  his  mother,  try- 
ing to  reach  him  —  and  failing,  for  the  first  time? 

That  thought  prompted  the  test  question  —  if  she  were  alive, 
how  would  he  feel  about  bringing  Rose  home  to  her  as  daughter- 
in-law,  as  mother  of  her  grandson  —  the  gift  of  gifts?  If  she 
were  aUve,  could  Rose  herself  have  faced  the  conjunction?  And 
to  him  she  was  still  verily  alive  —  or  had  been  till  his  infatuate 
passion  had  blinded  him  to  everything  but  one  face,  one  form, 
one  desire. 

That  night  there  came  to  him  —  on  the  verge  of  sleep  —  the 
old  thrilling  sensation  that  she  was  there  —  yearning  to  him 
across  an  impassable  barrier.  And  this  time  he  knew  —  with 
a  bitter  certainty  —  that  the  barrier  was  within  himself.  Every 
nerve  in  him  craved  —  as  he  had  not  craved  this  long  while  — 
the  unmistakable  sense  of  her  that  seemed  gone  past  recall. 
Desperately  he  strained  every  faculty  to  penetrate  the  resistant 
medium  that  withheld  her  from  him  —  in  vain. 

Wearied  out  with  disappointment  and  futile  effort,  he  fell 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  .413 

asleep  —  praying  for  a  dream  visitation  to  revive  his  shaken 
faith.  None  came:  and  conviction  seized  him  that  none  would 
come,  until  .  .  . 

One  could  not,  simultaneously,  live  on  intimate  terms  with 
earth  and  heaven.  And  Rose  was  earth  in  its  most  alluring  guise. 
More:  she  had  awakened  in  him  sensations  and  needs  that,  at 
the  moment,  she  alone  could  satisfy.  But  if  it  amoimted  to  a 
choice,  for  him,  there  could  be  no  question  .  .  . 

Next  day  and  the  day  after  a  sharp  return  of  fever  kept 
him  in  bed:  and  a  touch  of  his  father  in  him  tempted  him  to 
write,  sooner  than  face  the  strain  of  a  final  scene.  But  moral 
cowardice  was  not  among  his  failings;  also  imquestionably  — 
if  irrationally  —  he  wanted  to  see  her,  to  hold  her  in  his  arms 
once  again  .  .  . 

On  the  third  morning  he  sent  her  a  note  saying  he  was  better; 
he  would  be  round  for  tea:  and  received  a  verbal  answer.  Miss 
Sahib  sent  her  salaam.  She  would  be  at  home. 

So  about  half-past  three  he  rode  out  to  the  house  on  Elysium 
HiU,  wondering  how  —  and,  at  moments,  whether  —  he  was 
going  to  pull  it  through  .  .  , 

Her  smile  of  welcome  almost  unmanned  him.  And  he  simply 
did  not  feel  fit  for  the  strain.  It  would  be  much  easier  and  more 
restful  to  yield  to  her  spell. 

"I'm  so  sorry.  Idiotic  of  me,"  was  all  he  said;  and  went  for- 
ward to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

But  she,  without  a  word,  laid  both  hands  on  him,  gently  hold- 
ing him  back 

"Rose!  What's  the  matter?"  he  cried,  genuinely  upset. 
Nothing  imdermines  a  resolve  like  finding  it  forestalled. 

"  Simply  —  it's  all  over.  We're  beaten,  Roy,"  she  said,  in  a 
queer,  repressed  voice.  "We  can't  go  on  with  this.  And  —  you 
know  it." 

" But  —  darling! "  He  took  her  by  the  arms. 

"No  —  nol"  The  passionate  protest  was  addressed  to  herself 
as  much  as  to  him.  "Listen,  Roy.  I've  never  hated  saying  any- 
thing more  —  but  it's  true.  You  said,  last  time  —  'Why  pre* 


414  FAR  TO  SEEK 

tend?'  And  that  struck  home.  I  knew  I  had  been  pretend- 
ing hard  —  because  I  wanted  to  —  for  more  than  a  week. 
You  made  me  realise  .  .  .  one  couldn't  go  on  at  it  all  one's 
married  life.  —  But,  my  dear,  what  a  wretch  I  am!  You're  not 
fit  ...  " 

"Oh,  I'm  just  wobbly  .  .  .  stupid,"  he  muttered,  half 
dazed,  as  she  pressed  him  down  into  a  comer  of  the  Chester- 
field. 

"Poor  old  Roy.  When  you've  had  some  tea,  you'll  be 
able  to  face  things." 

He  said  nothing;  merely  leaned  back  against  the  cushion 
and  closed  his  eyes;  part  of  him  rebelling  furiously  against  her 
quiet  yet  summary  proceedings,  while  she  attended  to  the 
sputtering  kettle. 

How  prosaic,  after  all,  are  even  the  great  moments  of  life! 
They  had  been  ardent  lovers.  They  had  come  to  the  parting 
of  the  ways.  But  a  kettle  on  the  boil  would  wait  for  no  man; 
and,  till  the  body  was  served,  the  troubles  of  the  heart  must  wait. 

She  drew  the  table  nearer  to  him;  carefully  poured  out  tea; 
carefully  avoided  his  eyes.  And  —  in  the  intervals  between  her 
mechanical  occupations  —  she  told  him  as  much  of  the  truth  as 
she  felt  he  could  bear  to  hear,  or  she  to  speak.  Among  other 
things,  unavoidably,  she  explained  how  —  and  through  whom  — 
her  mother  had  come  to  know  about  their  reservation  — 

"That  young  sweep!"  Roy  muttered,  so  suddenly  alert  and 
fierce  that  half-amused  tenderness  tripped  up  her  studied 
composure. 

"You'd  go  for  him  now,  just  the  same,  I  believe!" 

"I  would  —  and  a  bit  extra.  Because  —  of  you." 

She  sighed.  "Oh,  yes,  it  was  a  mauvais  quart  d'heure  of  the  first 
order.  And  coming  on  the  top  of  your  crushing  letter  —  " 

He  captured  her  hand.  Their  eyes  met  —  and  softened. 

"No,  Roy,"  she  said,  gently  but  inexorably  releasing  her 
fingers.  "We've  got  to  keep  our  heads  to-day,  somehow." 

"Has  yours  so  completely  taken  command  of  affairs?" 

"I'm  afraid  — it  has." 

"Yet  —  you  stood  up  to  your  mother?" 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  415 

"Oh,  I  did  —  as  I've  never  done  yet.  But  afterwards  I 
realised  —  it  was  only  skin  deep.  She  said  .  .  .  things  I  can't 
repeat,  but  equally  ...  I  can't  forget;  things  about  .  .  .  pos- 
sible children  ..." 

The  blood  flamed  in  Roy's  sallow  face.  "Confound  herl 
What  does  she  know  about  possible  children?  " 

"More  than  I  do,  I  suppose,"  Rose  admitted,  with  a  pathetic 
half  smile.  "Anyway,  after  that  she  refused  to  countenance 
the  engagement  —  the  wedding  —  " 

Roy  sat  suddenly  forward,  scorn  and  anger  in  his  eyes. 

*' Refused —  !  After  the  infernal  fuss  she  made  over  me,  be-> 
cause  my  father  happened  to  have  a  title  and  a  garden!  And 
now  —  "  His  hand  closed  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  "I'm  con- 
sidered a  pariah  —  am  I?  —  simply  on  account  of  my  lovely 
little  mother  —  the  guardian  angel  of  us  all!" 

His  blaze  of  wrath,  his  low,  passionate  tone,  startled  her  to 
silence.  He  had  spoken  so  seldom  of  his  mother  since  the  first 
occasion,  that  —  although  she  knew  —  she  had  far  from  plumbed 
the  height  and  depth  of  his  worship.  And  instinctively  she 
thought,  "I  should  have  been  jealous  into  the  bargain." 

But  Roy  had  room  just  then  for  one  consideration  only. 

"Here  have  I  been  coming  to  her  house  on  sufferance  .  .  . 
polluting  her  precious  drawing-room,  while  she's  been  avoiding 
me  as  if  I  was  a  leper,  all  because  I'm  the  son  of  a  sainted  woman 
whose  shoe  she  wouldn't  have  been  worthy  —  oh,  I  beg  yom: 
pardon  —  "  He  checked  himself  sharply.  "After  all  —  she's 
your  mother." 

Rose  felt  her  cheeks  growing  imcomfortably  warm.  "I  did 
warn  you,  in  Lahore,  some  people  felt  .  .  .  that  way." 

"Well,  I  never  dreamed  they  would  behave  that  way.  It's  not 
as  if  I'd  been  bom  and  reared  in  India  and  might  claim  relations 
■  in  her  compound  —  ! " 

'      "My  dear  —  one  can't  make  her  see  the  difference,"  Rose 
lu-ged  desperately 

"Well,  I  won't  stay  any  longer  in  her  house.  I  won't  eat  her 
food  —  " 

He  pushed  aside  his  plate  so  impatiently  that  Rose  felt  almost 


4i6  FAR  TO  SEEK 

engry.  But  she  saw  his  hand  tremble ;  and  covered  it  with  her  own. 

"My  dear  —  my  dear!  You're  ill;  and  you're  being  rather 
exaggerated  over  things  —  " 

"Well,  you  put  me  in  such  a  false  position!  You  ought  to 
have  told  me!" 

She  winced  at  that  and  let  fall  her  hand.  "That's  all  one's 
reward  for  trying  to  save  you  from  jars  when  you  were  knocked 
up  and  unhappy.  And  I  told  you  ...  I  defied  her  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 
I  would  have  married  you  ..." 

He  looked  at  her,  and  his  heart  contracted  sharply. 

"Poor  Rose  —  poor  darling!"  He  was  his  normal  self  again. 
"What  a  beast' of  a  time  you  must  have  had!  But  —  how  did 
you  propose  to  accomplish  it  —  ?  " 

She  told  him,  haltingly,  of  the  Kashmir  plan;  and  he  listened, 
half  incredulous,  leaning  back  again;  thinking:  "She's  plucky, 
but  still,  all  she  troubled  about  really  was  to  save  her  face." 

And  she,  noting  his  impatient  frown,  was  thinking:  "He's  like 
a  sensitive  plant  charged  with  gunpowder.  Is  it  the  touchiness 
of  —  ?" 

*I'm  afraid  I'd  have  kicked  at  that."  His  voice  broke  in  upon 
her  thought.  "Such  a  hole-and-corner  business.  Hardly  fair  to 
my  father  ..." 

"Well,  there's  no  question  of  it  now,"  she  reminded  him,  with 
a  touch  of  asperity.  "I've  told  you  —  the  whole  thing's  defunct. 
Later  —  we'll  be  glad,  perhaps,  that  I  discovered  in  time  that 
part  of  me  could  not  be  coerced  —  by  the  other  part,  which  still 
wants  you  as  much  as  ever.  We  should  have  been  landed  in  dis- 
aster —  soon  or  late.  Better  soon  —  before  the  roots  have  struck 
too  deep.  But  you're  so  furiously  angry  with  the  reason  —  that 
you  seem  almost  to  forget  .  .  .  the  fact." 

His  eyes  brooded  on  her,  full  of  pain  and  the  old,  half -unwilling 
infatuation.  He  could  not  so  gratuitously  hurt  her  pride  as  to 
confess  that  their  discovery  had  been  mutual.  Let  her  glean 
what  satisfaction  she  could  from  having  taken  the  lead  —  first 
and  last.  Part  of  him,  also,  still  wanted  her;;though  in  the  ut- 
most depths  he  felt  a  glimmer  of  relief  that  the  thing  was  done  — 
and  done  by  her. 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  417. 

"No,"  he  said.  "I  don't  forget  the  fact.  But— -the  reason 
cuts  deep.  I  want  to  know—"  He  hesitated  — "Is  all  this 
.  .  .  antipathy  you  can't  get  over  —  you  and  your  mother — the 
ordinary  average  attitude?  Or  is  it  .  .  ,  exceptionally  acute?" 

She  drew  in  her  lip.  Why  would  he  force  her  to  hurt  him  more? 
For  they  had  got  beyond  poHte  evasion.  Clearly  he  wanted  the 
truth. 

"Mother's  is  acute,"  she  said,  not  looking  at  him.  "Mine  — 
I'm  afraid  is  ...  the  ordinary  average  feeling  against  it.  The 
exception  would  be  to  find  a  girl  —  especially  out  here  —  who 
could  honestly  .  .  .  get  over  it  —  " 

"  Unless  —  she  cared  in  the  real  big  way,"  Roy  interposed, 
his  own  pain  goading  him  to  an  unfair  hit  at  her.  "To  be  blunt, 
I  suppose  it's  the  case  —  of  Lance  over  again.  You've  foimd 
,  .  .  you  don't  love  me  enough  —  ?  " 

"And  you —  ?"  she  struck  back,  turning  on  him  the  cool, 
deliberate  look  of  early  days,  "Do  you  love  me  enough?  Do 
you  care  —  as  he  did?  " 

"No  —  not  as  he  did.  I've  cared  blindly,  passionately  — 
somehow  we  didn't  seem  to  meet  on  any  other  plane.  In  fact,  it 
...  it  was  realising  how  magnificently  Lance  cared  —  and  how 
little  you  seemed  able  to  appreciate  the  fact  —  that  made  me 
feel  —  asT  did,  down  there.  In  a  sense,  he's  been  barring  the 
way  .  .  .  ever  since  .  ..." 

"Royf  How  strange!"  She  faced  him  now,  the  mask  of  re- 
pression flung  aside.  "It's  been  the  same  —  with  mel" 

"WithyoM?" 

"Yes.  Ever  since  I  heard  .  .  .  he  was  gone,  he  has  haim  ted  me 
to  distraction.  I've  seemed  to  see  him  and  feel  him  in  quite  a 
different  way." 

"Good  Lord!"  Roy  murmured,  incredulous,  amazed.  "Hu- 
man beings  are  the  queerest  things!  If  only  .  .  .  you'd  felt  like 
that  .  .  .  sooner  —  ? " 

"Yes  —  if  only  I  had —  I"  she  lamented  frankly,  looking 
straight  before  her. 

"I'm  glad  —  you  told  me,"  said  her  unaccountable  lover. 

"I  nearly  —  didn't.  But  when  you  said  that,  I  felt  it  might 


4i8  FAR  TO  SEEK 

—  ease  things.  And  that  was  his  great  wish  —  wasn't  it?  —  to 
ease  things  .  .  .  for  us  both.  Oh  —  was  there  ever  any  one  .  .  .  ' 

quite  like  him?" 

Tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  and  Roy  contemplating  her  —  seeing, 
for  the  first  time,  something  beyond  her  beauty  —  felt  drawn  to 
her  in  an  altogether  new  way:  and  sitting  there  they  talked  of 
him  quietly,  like  friends,  rather  than  lovers  on  the  verge  of  part- 
ing for  good. 

As  real  to  them,  almost,  as  themselves,  was  the  spirit  of  the 
man  who  had  loved  both  more  greatly  than  they  were  capable 
of  loving  one  another;  who,  in  life,  had  refused  to  stand  between 
them;  yet,  in  death,  had  subtly  thrust  them  apart  .  .  . 

Then  there  came  a  pause.  They  remembered  ,  .  . 

"We're  rather  a  strange  pair  —  of  lovers,"  she  murmured 
shakily.  "I  feel,  now,  as  if  I  can't  bear  letting  you  go.  And  yet 
...  it  wouldn't  last.  —  Dearest,  will  you  be  sensible  .  .  .  and 
finish  your  tea?" 

"No.  It  would  choke  me,"  he  said  with  smothered  passion. 
"If  I've  got  to  go  —  I'm  going." 

He  stood  up,  bracing  his  shoulders.  She  stood  up  also,  con- 
fronting him.  Neither  could  see  the  other's  face  quite  clear. 

Then:  "Only  sbc  weeks!"  she  said,  very  low.  "Roy  —  we 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves." 

"I  am  —  heartily,"  he  confessed.  "I  was  never  more  so." 

She  was  looking  down  now;  twisting  her  ring.  "I'm  afraid 
.  .  .  I'm  not  talented  in  that  line.  Somehow  .  .  .  except  for 
Lance,  I  can't  regret  it."  She  slid  the  ring  over  her  knuckle. 

"  Oh,  keep  the  beastly  thing! "  he  flung  out  :n  an  access  of  pain. 
"Or  throw  it  down  the  Khud!  I  said  it  would  bring  bad  luck." 

She  sighed.  "All  the  same  —  poor  thing!  It's  too  lovely  —  " 

"Well,  then,  don't  wear  it:  but  keep  it"  —  his  tone  changed  — 
"as  a  reminder.  We  have  been  something  to  one  another  —  if 
it  couldn't  be  everything." 

Her  eyes  were  still  lowered;  her  lips  not  quite  steady. 

"You've  been  .  .  .  very  near  it  to  me.  Yet  —  it  seemed,  the 
more  ...  I  cared,  the  less  I  could  get  over  .  .  .  that.  And  I 
felt  as  if  you  —  wouldn't  get  over  —  Lance." 


DUST  OF  THE  ACTUAL  419 

"My  God!  It's  been  a  bitter,  contrary  business  all  round  I  I 
can't  bear  hurting  you.  And — the  talk  and  all  that — " 
She  nodded.  For  her  that  was  not  the  least  bitter  part  of  it  all. 
"And  you  —  ?  Oh,  Lord  —  will  it  be  Hayes  to  the  fore  again?" 

"No!"  Reproach  underlay  her  vehemence.  "Mother  may 
rage.  I  shall  go  with  Dolly  Smyth  to  Kashmir.  —  And  you  —  ?'* 

"Oh,  I'll  go  out  to  Narkhanda." 

"Alone?  But  you're  ill.  You  want  looking  after." 

"  Can't  be  helped.  Azim  Khan's  a  treasure.  And  really  I  don't 
care  a  damn  what  comes  to  me." 

"Oh,  but/ do— 1" 

It  was  a  cry  from  her  heart.  The  strain  of  repression  snapped. 
She  swayed,  just  perceptibly, 

In  a  moment  his  arms  were  round  her;  and  they  clung  together 
a  long  while,  in  the  only  complete  form  of  nearness  they  had 
known  .  .  . 

For  Roy,  that  last  passionate  kiss  was  dead-sea  fruit.  For 
Rose  —  it  was  her  moment  of  completest  surrender  to  an  ele- 
mental force  she  had  deliberately  played  with  only  to  find  herself 
the  sport  of  it  at  last  .  .  . 

When  it  was  over  —  all  was  over.  Words  were  impertinent. 
He  held  her  hands  close,  a  moment,  looking  into  her  tear-filled 
eyes.  Then  he  took  up  hat  and  stick  and  stiunbled  blindly  down 
the  verandah  ,stepsjiiu.v 

Back  in  his  bachelor  room  at  the  Club,  he  realised  that  fever 
was  on  him  again:  his  eyeballs  burning;  little  hammers  beatmg 
all  over  his  head.  Mechanically,  he  picked  up  two  letters  that 
lay  awaiting  him:  one  from  his  father,  one  from  Jeffers,  congratu- 
lating him,  in  rather  guarded  phrases,  on  his  engagement  to  Miss 
Arden. 

It  was  the  last  straw. 

END  OP  PHASE  IV 


PHASE  V 
A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS 


PHASE  V 

A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS 

Chapter  I 

Thou  art  with  life 
Too  closely  woven,  nerve  with  nerve  entwined; 
Service  still  craving  service;  love  for  love; 
Not  yet  the  human  task  is  done. 

R.  L.  S. 

In  the  verandah  of  Narkhanda  dak  bungalow  Roy  lay  alone, 
languidly  at  ease,  assisted  by  rugs  and  pillows  and  a  Madeira 
cane  lounge  at  an  invalid  angle;  walls  and  arches  splashed  with 
sunshine;  and  a  table  beside  him  littered  with  convalescent  ac- 
cessories. There  were  Home  papers;  there  were  books;  there 
was  fruit  and  a  syphon,  cut  lemons  and  crushed  ice: — every- 
thing thoughtfulness  could  suggest  set  within  easy  reach.  But 
the  nameless  depression  of  convalescence  hung  heavy  on  his 
spirit  and  his  limbs. 

He  was  thirsty;  he  was  lonely;  he  was  mentally  hungry  in  a 
negative  kind  of  way.  Yet  it  simply  did  not  seem  worth  the 
trivial  effort  of  will  to  decide  whether  he  wanted  to  pick  up  a 
book  or  an  orange  or  to  press  the  syphon  handle.  So  he  lay  there, 
inert,  impassive,  staring  across  the  valley  at  the  snows  —  peak 
beyond  soaring  peak,  ethereal  in  the  level  light. 

The  beauty  of  them,  the  pellucid  clearness  and  stillness  of 
early  evening,  stirred  no  answering  echo  within  him.  His  brain 
was  travelling  back  over  a  timeless  interval;  wandering  uncer- 
tainly among  sensations,  apparitions,  and  dreams  presiunably 
of  serai-delirium:  for  Lance  was  in  them  and  his  mother  and  Rose 
and  Dyan;  saying  and  doing  impossible  things  .  .  . 

And  in  clearer  intervals  there  hovered  the  bearded  face  of 
Azim  Khan,  pressing  upon  his  refractory  Sahib  this  infallible 
medicine,  that  'chikken  brdth'  or  jelly.  Occasionally  there  was 


424  FAR  TO  SEEK  ' 

another  bearded  face;  vaguely  familiar,  though  he  could  not  put 
a  name  to  it. 

Between  them,  the  two  had  brought  out  a  doctor  from  Simla. 
He  remembered  a  sharp  altercation  over  that.  He  wanted  no 
confounded  doctor  messing  round.  But  Azim  Khan,  for  love  of 
his  master,  had  flatly  defied  orders:  and  the  forbidden  doctor  had 
appeared  —  involving  further  exhausting  argument.  For  on  no 
account  would  Roy  be  moved  back  to  Simla.  Azim  Khan  under- 
stood his  ways  and  his  needs.  He  was  damned  if  he  would  have 
anyone  else  near  him. 

And  this  time  he  had  prevailed.  For  the  doctor,  who  happened 
to  be  a  wise  man,  knew  when  acquiescence  was  medically  sounder 
than  insistence.  There  had,  however,  been  a  brief  intrusion 
of  a  strange  woman,  in  cap  and  apron,  who  had  made  a  nui- 
sance of  herself  over  food  and  washing  and  was  infernally  in 
the  way.  When  the  fever  abated,  she  melted  into  the  land- 
scape; and  Roy  had  just  enough  of  his  old  spirit  left  in  him  to 
murmur,  ^Shah  bashi'  in  a  husky  voice:  and  Azim  Khan,  inflated 
with  pride,  became  more  autocratic  than  ever. 

The  other  bearded  face  had  resolved  itself  into  the  Delhi  Sikh, 
Jiwan  Singh.  He  had  been  on  a  tramp  among  the  Hills,  combat- 
ing insidious  Home-Rule  fairy-tales  among  the  villagers:  and 
finding  the  Sahib  very  ill,  had  stayed  on  to  help. 

This  morning  they  had  told  him  it  was  the  third  of  June  — 
barely  three  weeks  since  that  strange,  poignant  parting  with 
Rose.  Not  seven  weeks  since  the  infinitely  more  poignant  and 
terrible  parting  with  Lance.  Yet,  as  his  mind  stirred  unwillingly, 
picking  up  threads,  he  seemed  to  be  looking  back  across  a  meas- 
ureless gulf  into  another  life  .  .  . 

"The  Sahib  has  slept?  His  countenance  has  been  rnore  favour- 
able since  these  few  days?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  Jiwan  Singh;  and  the  man  himself  followed 
it  —  taut  and  wiry,  instinct  with  a  degree  of  energy  and  purpose 
almost  irritating  to  one  who  was  feeling  emptied  of  both;  aimless 
as  a  jellyfish  stranded  by  the  tide. 

"Not  smoking,  Hazur?  Has  that  scoundrel  Azim  Khan  for- 
gotten the  cigarettes?  " 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  425 

Roy  unearthed  his  case  and  held  it  up  smiling. 

"The  scoundrel  forgets  nothing,"  said  he,  knowing  very  well 
how  the  two  of  them  had  vied  with  one  another  in  forestalling 
his  needs.  "  Sit  down,  my  friend  —  and  tell  me  news.  I  am  too 
lazy  to  read."  He  touched  an  imopened  "Civil  and  MiHtary 
Gazette."  "Too  lazy  even  to  cast  out  the  devil  of  laziness.  But 
very  ready  to  listen.  Are  things  all  quiet  now?  Any  more  ianta- 
skasf* 

"Only  a  very  little  one  across  the  frontier,"  said  the  Sikh  with 
his  grim  smile:  and  proceeded  to  explain  that  the  Indian  Govern- 
ment had  lately  become  entangled  in  a  sort  of  a  war  with  Afghan- 
istan; a  rather  'kutcha  bundobast,^  in  Jiwan  Singh's  estimation; 
and  not  quite  up  to  time;  but  a  war,  for  all  that. 

"  You  mean  "  —  asked  Roy,  his  nmnbed  interest  faintly  astir — 
"that  it  was  to  have  been  part  of  the  same  game  as  the  trouble 
dovm  there?" 

"  God  has  given  me  ears  —  and  wits,  Hazur,"  was  the  cautious 
answer.  "  That  would  be  pukka  bundobasi,"^  for  war  and  trouble 
to  come  at  one  stroke  in  the  hot  season,  when  so  many  of  the 
white  soldier-%  are  in  the  Hills.  Does  your  Honour  suppose 
that  merely  by  chance  the  Amir  read  in  his  paper  of  riots  in 
India,  and  said  in  his  heart,  *WahI  Now  is  the  time  for  Ughting 
little  fires  along  the  Border?" 

"N-no  —  I  don't  suppose  — " 

"Does  your  Honour  suppose  Hindus  and  Moslems  —  outside 
a  highly  educated  few  —  are  truly  falling  on  each  other's  necks 
r-'thout  one  thought  of  political  motive?" 

"No,  my  friend  —  I  do  not  suppose." 

"Yet  these  things  are  said  openly  among  our  people:  and  too 
few,  now,  have  courage  to  speak  their  thought.  For  it  is  the  loyal 
who  suffer  —  shurrum  ki  bhat!^  Is  it  surprising,  Hazur,  if  we, 
who  distrust  this  new  madness,  begin  to  ask  ourselves,  'Has  the 
British  Raj  lost  the  will  —  or  the  power  —  of  former  days,  to 
protect  friends  and  smite  enemies? '  If  the  noisy  few  clamouring 
for  Swar6j  make  India  once  more  a  battlefield,  your  people  can 
go.  We  Sikhs  must  remain,  with  Pathans  and  Afghans  —  as  of 
old  —  hammering  at  our  doors  —  " 

*  Crude  arrangement.      '  Sound  arrangement.     '  Shameful  talk. 


426  FAR  TO  SEEK 

At  sight  of  the  young  Englishman's  pamed  frown,  he  checked 
his  expansive  mood.  ' '  To  the  Sahib  I  can  freely  speak  the  thoughts 
of  my  heart,  but  this  is  not  talk  to  make  a  sick  man  well.  God 
is  merciful.  Before  all  is  lost  —  the  British  Kaj  may  yet  arise 
with  power  as  in  the  great  days  ..." 

But  his  talk,  if  unpalatable,  was  more  tonic  than  he  knew; 
because  Roy's  love  for  India  went  deeper  than  he  knew.  The 
justice  of  Jiwan  Singh's  reproach;  the  hmt  at  tragic  severance 
of  the  two  countries  mingled  within  him,  waked  him  effectually 
from  semi-torpor;  and  the  process  was  as  painful  as  the  tingling 
renewal  of  life  in  a  frozen  limb.  By  timely  courage,  on  the  spot, 
the  threat  to  India  had  been  staved  off:  but  it  was  there  stiU  — 
sinister,  unsleeping,  virtually  unchecked. 

'Scotched  — not  killed.'  The  voice  of  Lance  sounded  too 
clearly  in  Roy's  brain;  and  the  more  intimate  pain,  deadened 
a  little  by  iUuess,  struck  at  his  heart  like  a  sword  .  .  . 

Within  a  week,  care  and  feeding  and  inimitable  air,  straight 
from  the  snowfields,  had  made  him,  physically,  a  new  man. 
Mentally,  it  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with  actualities,  and 
the  staggering  question,  'What  next?' 

At  the  back  of  his  mind  he  had  been  dreading  it,  evading  it, 
because  it  would  force  him  to  look  deep  into  his  own  heart; 
and  to  make  decisions,  when  the  effort  of  making  them  was  anath- 
ema, beclouded  as  he  was  by  the  nameless  depression  that 
still  brooded  over  him  like  a  fog.  The  doctor  had  prescribed  a 
tonic  and  a  whiff  of  Simla  frivolity;  but  Roy  paid  no  heed. 
He  knew  his  malady  was  mainly  of  the  heart  and  the  spirit. 
The  true  curative  touch  could  only  come  from  some,arrowy  shaft 
that  would  pierce  to  the  core  of  one  or  the  other. 

This  morning,  by  way  of  reasserting  his  normal  self,  he  had 
risen  very  early,  with  intent  to  walk  out  and  spend  the  day  at 
Baghi  dak  bungalow,  ten  miles  on.  Taking  things  easily,  it 
could  be  done.  He  would  look  through  his  manuscript;  try  and 
pick  up  threads.  Suraj  could  follow  later;  and  he  would  ride 
home  over  the  pass  in  the  cool  of  the  evening. 

He  set  out  under  a  clear  heaven,  misted  with  the  promise  of 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  427 

heat:  the  air  rather  ominously  still.  But  the  thread  of  a  path 
winding  through  the  dimness  and  vastness  of  Narkhanda  Forest 
was  ice-cool  with  the  breath  of  night.  Pines,  ilex,  and  deodars 
clung  miraculously  to  a  hillside  of  massive  rock  that  jutted  above 
him  at  intervals  —  threatening,  immense;  and  often,  on  the 
khtid  side,  dropped  abruptly  into  nothingness.  When  the  road 
curved  outward,  splashes  of  simhght  patterned  it;  and  intermit- 
tent gaps  revealed  the  flash  of  snowpeaks  incredibly  serene  and 
far. 

Normally  the  scene  —  the  desolate  grandeur  of  it  —  would 
have  intoxicated  Roy.  But  the  stranger  he  was  carrying  about 
with  him,  and  calling  by  his  own  name,  reacted  in  quite  another 
fashion  to  the  shadowed  majesty  of  looming  rocks  and  forest 
aisles.  The  immensity  of  it  dwarfed  one  mere  suffering  man  to 
the  dimensions  of  a  pebble  on  the  path.  And  the  pebble  had  the 
advantage  of  insensibility.  The  stillness  and  chillness  made  him 
feel  overwhelmingly  alone.  A  sudden  craving  for  Lance  grew 
almost  intolerable  .  .  . 

But  Lance  was  gone.  Paid,  with  his  bride,  had  vanished  from 
human  ken;  Rose  —  a  shattered  illusion  —  gone  too.  Better  so 
—  of  course;  though,  intermittently,  the  man  she  had  roused  in 
him  still  ached  for  ihQ  sight  and  feel  of  her.  She  gave  a  distinct 
thrill  to  life;  and  if  he  could  not  forgive  her,  neither  could  he 
instantly  forget  her.  Still  less  could  he  forget  the  significance  of 
the  shock  she  had  dealt  him  on  their  day  of  parting.  Patently  she 
loved  him,  in  her  passionate,  egotistical  fashion  —  as  he  had 
never  loved  her;  patently  she  had  combated  her  shrinking  in 
defiance  of  her  mother:  and  yet  ...  1 

Rage  as  he  might,  his  Rajput  pride,  and  pride  in  his  Rajput 
heritage,  were  wounded  to  the  quick.  If  all  English  girls  felt 
that  way,  he  would  see  them  further  before  he  would  propose 
to  another  one,  or  'confess'  to  his  adored  mother,  as  if  she  were 
a  family  skeleton  or  a  secret  vice.  Instantly  there  sprang  the 
tliought  of  Aruna  —  her  adoration,  her  exalted  passion;  Aruna, 
whom  he  might  have  loved,  yet  was  constrained  to  put  aside 
because  of  his  English  heritage;  only  to  find  himself  put  aside 
by  an  English  girl  on  account  of  his  Indian  blood.  A  pleasant 


428  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"  predicament  for  a  man  who  must  needs  marry,  in  common  duty 
i  to  his  father  and  himself.  ' 

And  what  of  Tara?  Was  it  possible  .  .  .  ?  Did  even  she  feel  — 
like  Rose,  in  a  lesser  degree?  Could  that  be  the  meaning  of  her 
final  desperate,  'I  can't  do  it,  Roy  —  even  for  you'?  Was  it  con- 
ceivable —  she  who  loved  his  mother  to  the  point  of  worship? 
Still  smarting  from  his  recent  rebuff,  he  simply  could  not  tell. 
Thea  and  Lance  loved  her  too;  yet,  in  Lance  especially,  he  had 
been  aware  of  a  tacit  tendency  to  ignore  the  Indian  connection. 
The  whole  complication  touched  him  too  nearly,  hurt  and  be- 
wildered him  too  bitterly,  for  cool  consideration.  He  saw  only 
that  which  had  been  his  pride  converted  into  a  rq)roach,  a  two- 
edged  sword  barring  the  way  to  marriage:  and  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  heart  he  found  it  hard  to  forgive  his  parents  —  mainly 
his  father  —  for  putting  him  in  so  cruel  a  position,  with  no  word 
of  warning  to  soften  the  blow. 

Perhaps  people  felt  differently  in  England.  If  so,  India  was 
no  place  for  him.  How  blatantly  juvenile  —  to  his  clouded, 
tormented  brain  —  seemed  his  arrogant  dreams  of  Oxford  daysl 
What  could  such  as  he  do  for  her  in  this  time  of  tragic  upheaval? 
And  how  could  all  the  Indias  he  had  seen — not  to  mention  the 
many  he  had  not  seen  —  be  jumbled  together  under  that  one 
misleading  name?  That  was  the  root  fallacy  of  dreamers  and 
'reformers.'  They  spoke  of  her  as  one,  when  in  truth  she  was 
1  many  —  bewilderingly  many.  Her  semblance  of  unity  sprang 
\  \  mainly  from  England's  unparalleled  achievement  —  her  Pax 
Britannica,  that  held  the  scales  even  between  rival  chiefs  and 
races  and  creeds;  that  had  wrought,  in  miniature,  the  very  inter- 
iiacial  stability  which  Europe  had  vainly  fought  and  striven  to 
achieve.  Yet  now  some  mahgn  power  seemed  constraining  her  in 
ithe  name  of  progress  to  undo  the  work  of  her  own  hands  ,  .  . 

All  his  thronging  thoughts  were  tinged  with  the  gloom  of  his 
"unhopeful  mood;  and  his  body  flagged  with  his  flagging  spirit. 
Before  he  had  walked  four  miles,  his  legs  refused  to  carry  him 
any  farther. 

He  had  emerged  into  the  open,  into  full  view  of  the  vastness 
beyond.  Naked  rock  and  stone,  jewelled  with  moss  and  yoimg 


V 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  429 

green,  fell  straight  from  the  path's  edge;  and  one  ragged  pine, 
springing  from  a  group  of  boulders,  was  roughly  stencilled  on 
blue  distances  empurpled  with  shadows  of  thunderous  cloud. 

A  flattened  boulder  proved  irresistible;  and  Roy  sat  down, 
leaning  his  head  against  the  trunk,  sniffing  luxuriously  —  whiffs 
of  resin  and  sun-warmed  pine-needles.  Oh,  to  be  at  home,  in  his 
own  beechwood!  But  the  journey  in  this  weather  would  be 
purgatorial.  Meantime  there  was  his  walk;  and  he  decided,  pro- 
saically, to  fortify  himself  with  a  slab  of  chocolate.  Instead  — 
still  more  prosaically  —  he  fell  sound  asleep  .  .  . 

But  sleep,  in  an  imnatural  position,  begets  dreams.  And  Roy 
dreamed  of  Lance;  of  that  last  awful  day  when  he  raved  inces- 
santly of  Rose.  But  in  the  dream  he  was  conscious;  and  before 
his  distracted  gaze  Roy  held  Rose  in  his  arms;  craving  her,  yet 
hating  her;  because  she  clung  to  him,  heedless  of  entreaties 
from  Lance,  and  would  not  be  shaken  off. 

In  a  frantic  effort  to  free  himself,  he  woke  —  with  the  anguish 
of  his  loss  fresh  upon  him  —  to  find  the  sky  heavily  overcast, 
the  breathlessness  of  imminent  storm  in  the  air.  Away  to  the 
north  there  were  blue  spaces,  sun-splashed  leagues  of  snow.  But 
from  the  south  and  west  rolled  up  the  big  battalions  —  heralds 
of  the  monsoon.  He  concluded,  apathetically,  that  Bdghi  was 
'off.'  He  was  in  for  a  drenching.  Lucky  he  had  brought  his  bur- 
berry .  .  . 

Yet  he  did  not  stir.  A  ton  weight  seemed  to  hang  on  his  limbs, 
his  spirit,  his  heart.  He  simply  sat  there,  in  a  carven  stillness, 
staring  down,  down,  into  abysmal  depths  .  .  . 

And  startlingly,  sharply,  the  temptation  assailed  him.  The  tug 
of  it  was  almost  physical  .  .  .  How  simple  to  yield,  and  to  cut 
his  many  tangles  at  one  stroke! 

In  that  jaundiced  moment,  he  saw  hmiself  a  failure  fore- 
ordained; debarred  from  marriage  by  evils  supposed  to  spring 
from  the  dual  strain  in  him;  his  cherished  hopes  of  closer  union 
between  the  two  countries  he  loved  threatened  with  shipwreck 
by  an  England  complacently  experimental,  an  India  at  war  with 
the  British  connection  and  with  her  many  selves.  He  seemed 
fated  to  bring  unhappmess  on  those  he  cared  for  —  Aruna,  Lance,  ^ 


430  FAR  TO  SEEK 

even  Rose.  And  what  of  his  father  —  if  he  failed  to  marry?  He 
hadn't  even  the  grit  to  finish  his  wretched  novel  .  .  . 

He  rose  at  last,  mechanically,  and  moved  forward  to  the  un- 
railed  edge  of  all  things.  The  magnetism  of  the  depths  drew  him. 
The  fatalistic  strain  in  his  blood  drew  him  .  .  . 

He  stood  —  though  he  did  not  know  it  —  as  his  mother  had 
once  stood,  hovering  on  the  verge;  his  own  life  —  that  she  bore 
within  her  —  hanging  in  the  balance.  From  the  fatal  tilt  she 
had  been  saved  by  the  voice  of  her  husband  —  the  voice  of  the 
West.  And  now,  at  Roy's  critical  moment,  it  was  the  voice  of 
the  West  —  of  Lance  —  that  sounded  in  his  brain:  "Don't  fret 
your  heart  out,  Roy.  Carry  on." 

Having  carried  on,  somehow,  through  four  years  of  war, 
he  knew  precisely  how  much  of  casual,  dogged  pluck  was  en- 
shrined in  that  soldierly  phrase.  It  struck  the  note  of  courage 
and  command.  It  was  Lance  incarnate.  It  steadied  him  auto- 
matically at  a  crisis  when  his  shaken  nerves  might  not  have 
responded  to  any  abstract  ethical  appeal.  He  closed  his  eyes  a 
moment  to  collect  himself;  swayed,  the  merest  fraction;  then 
deliberately  stepped  back  a  pace  .  .  . 

The  danger  had  passed. 

Through  his  lids  he  felt  the  glare  of  lightning:  the  first  flash  of 
the  storm. 

And  as  the  heel  of  his  retreating  boot  came  firmly  down  on 
the  path  behind,  there  rose  an  injured  yelp  that  jerked  him  very 
completely  out  of  the  clouds. 

"Poor  Terry  —  poor  old  man!"  he  murmured,  caressing  the 
faithful  creature;  always  too  close  by,  always  getting  trodden 
on  —  the  common  guerdon  of  the  faithful.  And  the  whhnsical 
thought  intruded,  "If  I'd  gone  over,  the  good  Httle  beggar  would 
have  jumped  after  me.  Not  fair  play."  The  fact  that  Terry  had 
been  saved  from  involuntary  suicide  seemed  somehow  the  more 
important  consideration  of  the  two. 

A  rumbhng  growl  overhead  reminded  him  that  there  were  other 
considerations — urgent  ones.  "  You're  not  hurt,  you  little  hypo- 
crite. Come  on.  We  must  leg  it."  And  they  legged  it  to  some 
purpose;  Terry  idiotically  vociferous — leapmg  on  before  .  .  . 


Chapter  II 

I  seek  what  I  cannot  get! 
I  get  what  I  do  not  seek. 

Rabindbanath  Tagorb 

Then  the  storm  broke  in  earnest  ... 

Crash  on  flash,  crash  on  flash  —  at  ever-lessening  intervals  — 
the  tearless  heavens  raged  and  clattered  round  his  unprotected 
head.  Thunder  toppled  about  him  like  falling  timber  stacks. 
Fiery  serpents  darted  all  ways  at  once  among  black  boughs  that 
swayed  and  moaned  funereally.  The  gloom  of  the  forest  en- 
hanced the  weird  magnificence  of  it  all:  and  Roy  —  who  had  just 
been  within  an  ace  of  flinging  away  his  life  —  felt  irrationally 
anxious  on  account  of  thronging  trees  and  the  absence  of  rain. 
He  was  recovered  enough,  already,  to  chuckle  at  the  ignomin- 
ious anti-climax.  But,  as  usual,  it  was  the  creepsomeness  rather 
than  the  danger  that  got  on  his  nerves  and  forced  his  legs  to 
hurry  of  their  own  accord  ,  .  . 

In  the  deep  of  a  gloomy  indent  the  thought  assailed  him  — 
"Why  do  I  know  it  all  so  well?  Where  .  .  .  ?  When  .  .  .  ?" 

An  inner  flash  lit  the  dim  recesses  of  memory.  Of  course  —  it 
was  that  other  day  of  summer,  in  the  far  beginning  of  things; 
the  day  of  the  Golden  Tusks  and  the  gloom  and  the  growling 
thunder;  his  legs,  as  now,  in  a  fearful  hurry  of  their  own  accord; 
and  Tara  waiting  for  him  —  his  High-Tower  Princess.  With  a 
pang  he  recalled  how  she  seemed  the  point  of  safety  —  because 
she  was  never  afraid. 

No  Tara  waiting  now.  No  point  of  safety,  except  a  very  pro- 
saic dak  bungalow  and  good  old  Azim,  who  would  fuss  like  the 
devil  if  rain  came  on  and  he  got  a  wetting. 

Ah  —  here  it  was,  at  last!  Buckets  of  it!  lashing  his  face,  run- 
ning down  his  neck,  saturating  him  below  the  rim  of  his  flapping 
burberry.  Buffeted  mercilessly,  he  broke  into  a  steady  trot. 
Thunder  and  lightning  were  less  virulent  now;  and  he  found 
himself  actually  enjoying  the  whole  thing.  Tired  —  ?  Not  a  bit. 


432  FAR  TO  SEEK 

The  miasma  of  depression  seemed  blown  clean  away  by  the  horse- 
play of  the  elements.  He  had  been  within  an  ace  of  taking  un- 
warranted liberties  with  Nature.  Now  she  retaliated  by  taking 
liberties  with  him;  and  her  buffeting  proved  a  finer  restorative 
than  all  the  drugs  in  creation.  Electricity,  her  'fierce  angel  of 
the  air,'  set  every  nerve  tingling.  A  queer  sensation:  but  it  was 
life.  And  he  had  been  feeling  more  than  half  dead  .  .  . 

Azim  Khan,  however,  being  innocent  of  'nerves,'  took  another 
view  of  the  matter.  Arrived  at  the  point  of  safety,  Roy  found  a 
log  fire  burning;  and  a  brazier  alight  under  a  contrivance  hke 
a  huge  cane  hen-coop,  for  drying  his  clothes.  Vainly  protesting, 
he  was  made  to  change  every  garment;  was  installed  by  the  fire, 
with  steaming  brandy-and-water  at  his  elbow,  and  lemons  and 
sugar  —  and  letters  .  .  .  quite  a  little  pile  of  them. 

^^Belaiti  ddk,^  Hazur,"  Azim  Khan  superfluously  informed  him, 
with  an  air  of  personal  pride  in  the  whole  bundobast  —  including 
the  timely  arrival  of  the  English  mail. 

There  were  parcels  also:  a  biggish  one,  from  his  father;  another 
from  Jeff ers,  obviously  a  book.  And  suddenly  it  dawned  on  him 
— this  must  be  the  tenth  of  June.  Yesterday  was  his  twenty- 
sixth  birthday;  and  he  had  never  thought  of  it;  never  realised 
the  date!  But  they  had  thought  of  it  weeks  ahead:  while  he  — 
graceless  and  ungrateful  —  had  deemed  himself  half  forgotten. 

He  ran  the  envelopes  through  his  fingers:  Tiny,  Tara  (his 
heart  jerked  —  was  it  congratulations?  —  he  had  never  felt  he 
could  write  of  it  to  her);  Aruna;  a  black-edged  one  from  Thea; 
and  —  his  heart  jerked  in  quite  another  fashion  —  Rose! 

Amazing!  What  did  it  mean?  She  wasn't  —  going  back  on 
things  .  .  .  ? 

Curiosity  —  sharpened  by  a  prick  of  fear  —  impelled  him  to 
open  her  letter  first.  And  the  moment  he  had  read  the  opening 
line,  compimction  smote  him. 

Roy  —  my  dear,  I  couldn't  help  remembering  the  ninth.  So  I  feel 

I  must  write  and  wish  you  'many  happy  returns'  of  it  —  happier 

than  this  one  —  with  all  my  heart.  I  have  worried  over  you  a  good 

deal.  For  I'm  sure  you  must  have  been  ill.  Do  go  Home  soon  aud 

*  English  mail. 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  433 

be  properly  taken  care  of,  for  a  while,  by  your  own  people.  I'm 
going  in  the  autumn  with  my  friend,  Mrs.  Hilton.  Some  day  you 
will  surely  find  a  wife  worthier  of  you  than  I  would  have  been.  When 
your  good  day  comes,  let  me  know  —  and  I'll  do  the  same  by  you. 
Good  luck  to  you  always  — 

Rose 

Roy  slipped  the  note  into  his  pocket  and  sat  staring  into  tlie 
fire,  deeply  moved.  A  vision  of  her  —  too  alluring  for  comfort  — 
was  flashed  upon  his  brain.  She  was  confoundedly  attractive. 
She  had  no  end  of  good  points:  but  .  .  .  with  a  very  big  ^  .  .  . 

His  gaze  rested  absently  on  the  parcel  from  his  father.  What 
the  deuce  could  it  be?  To  the  imaginative  an  unopened  parcel 
never  quite  loses  its  intriguing  air  of  mystery.  The  shape  sug- 
gested a  picture.  His  mother  .  .  .  ? 

With  a  luxury  of  deUberation  he  cut  the  strings;  removed 
wrapper  after  wrapper  to  the  last  layer  of  tissue  .  .  . 

Then  he  drew  a  great  breath  —  and  sat  spellboimd;  gazing  — 
endlessly  gazing  —  at  Tara's  face:  the  wild  roses  in  her  cheeks 
faded  a  little;  the  glory  of  her  hair  undimmed;  the  familiar  way 
it  rippled  back  from  her  low  wide  brow;  a  hint  of  hidden  pain 
about  the  sensitive  lips  and  in  the  hyacinth  blue  of  her  eyes. 
Only  his  father  could  have  wrought  a  vision  so  appealingly  alive. 
And  the  effect  on  Roy  was  instantaneous  .  .  .  overwhelming .  .  . 

Tara  —  dearest  and  loveliest!  Of  course  it  was  her  —  always 
had  been,  down  in  the  uttermost  depths.  The  treasure  he  had 
been  far  to  seek  had  blossomed  beside  him  since  the  beginning  of 
things:  and  he,  with  his  eyes  always  on  the  horizon,  had  missed 
the  one  incomparable  flower  at  his  feet  .  .  . 

Had  he  missed  it?  Had  there  ever  been  a  chance?  What, 
precisely,  had  she  meant  by  her  yoimg,  vehement  refusal  of  him? 
And  —  if  it  were  not  the  dreaded  reason,  was  there  still  ho[)e? 
Would  she  ever  understand  .  .  .  ever  forgive  .  .  .  the  inglorious 
episode  of  Rose?  If,  at  heart,  he  could  plead  the  excuse  of  Adam, 
he  could  not  plead  it  to  her. 

Reverently  he  took  that  miracle  of  a  picture  between  his  hands 
and  set  it  on  the  broad  mantelpiece,  that  distance  might  quicken 
the  illusion  of  life. 


434  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Then  the  spell  was  on  him  again.  Her  sweetness  and  light 
seemed  to  illumine  the  imbeautiful  room.  Of  a  truth  he  knew, 
now,  what  it  meant  to  love  and  be  in  love  with  every  faculty  of 
soul  and  body;  knew  it  for  a  miracle  of  renewal,  the  very  elixir  of 
life.  And  —  the  radiance  of  that  knowledge  revealed  how  second- 
ary a  part  of  it  was  the  craving  with  which  he  had  craved  pos- 
session of  Rose.  Steeped  in  poetry  as  he  was,  there  stole  into 
his  mind  a  fragment  of  Tagore  —  '  She  who  had  ever  remained 
in  the  depths  of  my  being,  in  the  twilight  of  gleams  and  glimpses 
...  I  have  roamed  from  country  to  country,  keeping  her  in 
the  core  of  my  heart.' 

All  the  jangle  of  jarred  nerves  and  shaken  faith;  all  the  con- 
fusion of  shattered  hopes  and  ideals  would  resolve  itself  into  co- 
herence at  last  —  if  only  ...  if  only  .  .  .  ! 

And  dropping  suddenly  from  the  clouds,  he  remembered  his 
letters  ,  .  .  her  letter. 

A  sealed  envelope  had  fallen  unheeded  from  his  father's  parcel: 
but  it  was  hers  he  seized  —  and  half  hesitated  to  open.  What 
if  she  were  announcing  her  own  engagement  to  some  infernal 
fellow  at  home?  There  must  be  scores  and  scores  of  them  .  ,  . 

His  hand  was  not  quite  steady  as  he  unfolded  the  two  sheets 
that  bore  his  father's  crest  and  the  home  stamp  'Bramleigh 
Beeches.' 

My  dear  Roy  (he  read) : 

Many  happy  returns  of  June  the  Ninth.  It  was  one  of  our  great 
days  —  wasn't  it?  —  once  upon  a  time.  All  your  best  and  dearest 
wishes  we  are  wishing  for  you  —  over  here.  And  of  course  I've  heard 
your  tremendous  news,  though  you  never  wrote  and  told  me  — 
why?  You  say  she  is  beautiful.  I  hope  she  is  a  lot  more  besides. 
You  would  need  a  lot  more,  Roy,  unless  you've  changed  very  much 
from  the  boy  I  used  to  know. 

It  is  cruel  having  to  write  —  in  the  same  breath  —  about  Lance. 
From  the  splendid  boy  he  was,  one  can  guess  the  man  he  became. 
To  me  it  seems  almost  like  half  of  you  gone.  And  I'm  sure  it  must 
seem  so  to  you  —  my  poor  Roy.  I  don't  wonder  you  felt  bad  about 
the  way  of  it;  but  it  was  the  essence  of  him  —  that  kind  of  thing. 
A  verse  of  Charles  Sorley  keeps  on  in  my  head  since  I  heard  it. 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  435 

'Surely  we  knew  it  long  before; 
Knew  all  along  that  he  was  made 
For  a  swift  radiant  morning;  for 
A  sacrificing  swift  night  shade.' 

I  can*t  write  all  I  feel  about  it.  Besides,  I'm  hoping  your  pain  may 
be  eased  a  little  now;  and  I  don't  want  to  wake  it  up  again. 

But  not  even  these  two  big  things  —  not  even  your  Birthday  — ■ 
are  my  reallest  reason  for  writing  this  particular  letter  to  my  Brace- 
let-Bound Brother.  Do  you  remember?  Have  you  kept  it,  Roy? 
Does  it  still  mean  anything  to  you?  It  does  to  me  —  though  I've 
never  mentioned  it  and  never  asked  any  service  of  you.  But  —  I'm 
going  to,  now.  Not  for  myself .  Don't  be  afraid!  It's  for  Uncle  Nevil 
—  and  I  ask  it  in  Aunt  Lil^mani's  name. 

Roy,  when  I  came  home,  the  change  in  him  made  me  miserable. 
He's  never  really  got  over  losing  her.  And  you've  been  sort  of  lost 
too  —  for  the  time  being.  I  can  see  how  he's  wearing  his  heart  out 
with  wanting  you:  though  I  don't  suppose  he  has  ever  said  so.  And 
you  —  out  there  —  probably  thinking  he  doesn't  miss  you  a  mite. 
I  know  you  —  and  your  ways.  Also  I  know  him  —  which  is  my 
ragged  shred  of  excuse  for  rushing  in  where  an  angel  would  prob- 
ably think  better  of  it! 

He  has  been  an  angel  to  me  since  I  got  back;  and  it  seems  to  cheer 
him  up  when  I  rxm  round  here.  So  I  do  —  pretty  often.  But  I'm 
not  Roy!  And  perhaps  you'll  forgive  my  bold  demand,  when  I  tell 
you  Aunt  Jane's  looming  —  positively  looming!  She's  becoming  a 
perfect  ogre  of  sisterly  solicitude.  As  he  won't  go  to  London,  she's 
threatening  to  cheer  him  up  by  making  the  dear  Beeches  her  head- 
quarters after  the  season.  And  he  —  poor  darhng  —  with  not  enough 
spirit  in  him  to  kick  against  the  pricks.  If  you  were  coming,  he  would 
have  an  excuse.  Alone  —  he's  helpless  in  her  conscientious  talons! 

If  that  won't  bring  you,  nothing  will  —  not  even  my  bracelet 
command. 

I  know  the  journey  in  June  will  be  a  nightmare.  And  you  won't 
like  leaving  Indian  friends  or  Miss  Arden.  But  think  —  here  he  is 
alone,  wanting  what  only  you  can  give  him.  And  the  bangle  I  sent 
you  That  Day  —  if  you've  kept  it  —  gives  me  the  right  to  say, 
'Come  —  quickly*  It  may  be  a  wrench.  But  I  promise  you  won't 
regret  it.  Wire,  if  you  can. 

Always  your  loving 

Tara 


/  ( 


436  FAR  TO  SEEK 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  reading  that  so  characteristic 
and  endearing  letter,  liis  plans  were  cut  and  dried.  Her  irresist- 
ible appeal  —  and  the  no  less  irresistible  urge  within  him  —  left 
no  room  for  the  deliberations  of  his  sensitive,  complex  nature. 
It  flung  open  all  the  floodgates  of  memory;  set  every  nerve 
aching  for  Home  —  and  Tara,  late  discovered;  but  not  too  late, 
he  passionately  prayed  .  .  . 

The  nightmare  journey  had  no  terrors  for  him  now.  In  every 
sense  he  was  'hers  to  command.' 

He  drew  out  his  old,  old  letter- case  —  her  gift  —  and  opened 
it.  There  lay  the  bracelet,  folded  inside  her  quaint,  childish 
note;  the  'ribbin'  from  her  'petticote'  and  the  gleaming  strands 
of  her  hair.  The  sight  of  it  brought  tears  of  which  he  felt  not  the 
least  ashamed.  It  also  brought  a  vision  of  himself  standing  before 
his  mother,  demurring  at  possible  obligations  involved  in  their 
'game  of  play.'  And  acioss  the  years  came  back  to  him  her  very 
words,  her  very  look  and  tone :  *  Remember,  Roy,  it  is  for  always. 
If  she  shall  ask  from  you  any  service,  you  must  not  refuse  — 
ever  .  .  .  By  keeping  the  bracelet  you  are  bound'  .  .  . 

Wire?  Of  course  he  would! 

Before  the  day  was  out  his  message  was  speeding  to  her: 

Engagement  off.  Coming  first  possible  boat. 

Yours  to  command 

Roy 


Chapter  III 

Did  you  not  knmv  that  people  hide  their  love, 
Like  a  flower  that  seems  too  precious  to  be  picked? 

Wu-Tl 

Sanctuary  —  at  last!  The  garden  of  his  dreams  —  of  the  world 
before  the  deluge  —  in  the  quiet-coloured  end  of  a  July  evening; 
the  garden  vitally  inwoven  with  his  fate  —  since  it  was  respon- 
sible for  the  coming  of  Joe  Bradley  and  his  'beaky  mother.' 

Such  gardens  bear  more  than  trees  and  fruit  and  flowers. 
Human  lives  and  characters,  from  generation  to  generation, 
are  growth  of  their  soil.  With  the  wholesale  demoHshing  of  bound- 
aries and  hedges,  their  magic  influence  may  wane:  and  it  is  an 
influence  —  like  the  imobtrusive  influence  of  the  gentleman  — 
that  human  nature,  especially  English  nature,  cannot  afiord  to 

flinp:  away.  ^  -.    ■.     » 

Roy  poet  and  fighter,  with  the  liu-e  of  the  desert  and  the  hori- 
zon in  his  blood,  knew  himself,  also,  for  a  spiritual  product  of 
this  particular  garden  —  of  the  vast  lawn  (not  quite  so  vast  as 
he  remembered),  the  rose-beds  and  the  beeches  in  the  full  glory 
of  their  incomparable  leafage;  all  steeped  in  the  delicate  clarity  of 
ram-washed  air  —  the  very  aura  of  England,  as  dust  was  the 
aiira  of  Jaipur. 

Dinner  was  over.  They  were  sitting  out  on  the  lawn,  he  and 
his  father;  a  small  table  beside  them  with  glass  coffee  machme, 
and  chocolates  in  a  silver  dish;  the  smoke  of  their  cigark  hovering, 
drifting,  unstirred  by  any  breeze.  No  Terry  at  his  feet.  The  faith- 
ful creature  —  a  vision  of  abject  misery  —  had  been  carried  off 
to  eat  his  heart  out  in  quarantine.  Tangled  among  the  tree-tops 
hung  the  ghost  of  a  moon,  almost  full.  Somewhere,  in  the  far 
quiet  of  the  shrubberies,  a  nightingale  was  communing  with  its 
own  heart  in  liquid  undertones;  and  in  Roy's  heart  there  dwelt 
an  iridescence  of  peace  and  pain  and  longing  shot  through  with 
hope  ... 
That  very  mommg,  at  an  unearthly  hour,  he  had  landed  in 


438  FAR  TO  SEEK 

England  after  an  absence  of  three  and  a  half  years:  and  precisely 
what  that  means  in  the  way  of  complex  emotions,  only  they  know 
who  have  been  there.  The  purgatorial  journey  had  eclipsed 
expectation.  Between  recurrent  fever  and  seasickness  there  had 
been  days  when  it  seemed  doubtful  if  he  would  ever  reach  Home 
at  all.  But  a  wiry  constitution  and  the  will  to  live  had  triumphed: 
and,  m  spite  of  the  early  hour,  his  father  had  not  failed  to  be  on 
the  quay. 

The  first  sight  of  him  had  given  Roy  a  shock  for  which  — 
in  spite  of  Tara's  letter  —  he  was  unprepared.  This  was  not 
the  father  he  remembered  —  humorous,  unruffled,  perennially 
young:  but  a  man  so  changed  and  tired-looking  that  he  seemed 
almost  a  stranger,  with  his  empty  coat  sleeve  and  hair  touched 
with  silver  at  the  temples.  The  actual  moment  of  meeting  had 
been  difficult;  the  joy  of  it  so  deeply  tinged  with  pain  that  they 
had  clung  desperately  to  surface  commonplaces,  because  they 
were  Englislimen  and  could  not  relieve  the  inner  stress  by  falling 
on  one  another's  necks. 

And  there  had  been  a  secret  pang  (for  which  Roy  sharply 
reproached  himself)  that  Tara  was  not  there  too.  Idiotic  to  ex- 
pect it,  when  he  knew  Sir  James  had  gone  to  Scotland  for  early 
fishing.  But  to  be  idiotic  is  the  lover's  privilege;  and  his  not  phe- 
nomenal gift  of  patience  had  been  unduly  strained  by  the  letter 
awaiting  him  at  Port  Said.  They  were  coming  back;  but  not 
arriving  till  to-night.  He  would  not  see  her  till  to-morrow  .  .  . 

In  his  pocket  reposed  a  brief,  Tara-like  note  bidding  her  'faith- 
ful Knight  of  the  Bracelet'  welcome  Home.  Vainly  he  delved 
between  the  lines  of  her  sisterly  affection.  Nothing  could  still 
the  doubt  that  consumed  him  but  contact  with  her  hands,  her 
eyes  .  .  . 

For  that  —  and  other  reasons  —  the  difficult  meeting  had 
been  followed  by  a  difficult  day.  They  had  wandered  through 
the  house  and  garden,  very  carefully  veiling  their  emotions. 
They  had  loimged  and  smoked  in  the  studio,  looking  through  his 
father's  latest  pictures.  They  had  talked  of  the  family.  Jeffers 
would  be  down  to-morrow  night  for  the  week-end:  Tiny  on  Tues- 
day with  the  precious  Baby:  Jerry,  distinctly  coming  round,  and 


V 

A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  439 

eager  to  see  Roy.  Even  Aunt  Jane  sounded  a  shade  keen.  And 
he,  undeserving,  had  scarcely  expected  them  to  'turn  a  hair.' 
Then  they  discussed  the  Indian  situation;  and  Roy  —  forgetting 
to  be  shy  —  raged  at  finding  how  little  those  at  Home  had  been 
allowed  to  realise,  to  imderstand.  Not  a  question,  so  far,  about 
his  rapid  on-and-oti  engagement;  for  which  mercy  he  was  duly 
grateful.  And  of  her  who  dwelt  in  the  foreground  and  back- 
ground of  their  thoughts  —  not  a  word. 

It  would  take  a  little  time,  Roy  supposed,  to  build  their  bridge 
across  the  chasm  of  three  and  a  half  eventful  years.  You 
couldn't  hustle  a  lapsed  intimacy.  To-morrow  things  would  go 
better;  especially  if  ...  ? 

Yet,  throughout,  he  had  been  touched  inexpressibly  by  his 
father's  unobtrusive  tokens  of  pleasure  and  affection:  and  now  — 
sitting  together  with  their  cigars,  in  the  last  of  the  daylight  — 
things  felt  easier. 

"Dad,"  he  said  suddenly,  turning  his  eyes  from  the  garden 
to  the  man  beside  him,  who  was  also  its  spiritual  product,  "if 
I  seem  a  bit  stupefied,  it's  because  I'm  still  walkmg  and  talking 
in  a  dream;  terrified  I  may  wake  up  and  find  it's  not  true!  I 
can't,  in  a  twinkling,  adjust  the  beautiful,  incredible  sameness 
of  all  this,  with  the  staggering  changes  inside  me." 
His  father's  smile  had  its  friendly  understanding  quality. 
"No  hurry,  Roy.  All  your  deep  roots  are  here.  Change  as 
much  as  you  please,  you  still  remain  —  hei  son." 

"Yes  — that's  it.  The  place  is  full  of  her,"  Roy  said,  very 
low  and  at  present  they  could  not  trust  themselves  to  say  naore. 
It  had  not  escaped  Sir  Nevil's  notice  that  the  boy  had  avoided 
the  drawing-room,  and  had  not  once  been  under  the  twin  beeches, 
his  favourite  summer  retreat.  No  hammock  was  slung  there  now. 
After  a  considerable  gap  Roy  remarked  carelessly:  "I  suppose 
they  must  have  got  home  by  now?  " 

"About  an  hour  ago,  to  be  exact,"  said  Sir  Nevil;  and  Roy's 
involuntary  start  moved  him  to  add:  "You're  not  runnmg  round 
there  to-night,  old  man.  They'll  be  tired.  So  are  you.  And  it's 
only  fair  I  should  have  fijst  innings.  I've  waited  a  long  time  for 
it,  Roy." 


440  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Dads!"  Roy  looked  at  once  penitent  and  reproachful  —  an 
engaging  trick  of  schoolroom  days,  when  he  felt  a  scolding  in  the 
air.  "You  never  said  —  you  never  gave  me  an  idea  ..." 

"  You  never  sounded  as  if  the  idea  would  be  acceptable." 

"Didn't  I?  Letters  are  the  devil,"  murmured  Roy  —  all 
penitence  now.  "And  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Tara  ..."  He 
stopped  awkwardly.  Their  eyes  met  and  they  smiled.  "Did 
you  know  .  .  .  she  wrote?  And  —  that's  why  I'm  here?  " 

"Well  done,  Tara!  I  didn't  know.  I  had  dim  suspicions.  I 
also  had  a  dim  hope  that  —  my  picture  might  tempt  you — " 

"Oh,  it  would  have  —  letter  or  no.  It's  an  inspired  thing." 
He  had  already  written  at  length  on  that  score.  "You  were 
mightily  clever  —  the  two  of  you!" 

His  father  twinkled.  "That  as  may  be.  We  had  the  trifling 
advantage  of  knowing  oui  Roy!'" 

They  sat  on  till  all  the  light  had  ebbed  from  the  sky  and  the 
moon  had  come  into  her  own.  It  was  still  early;  but  time  is  the 
least  ingredient  of  such  a  day;  and  Sir  Nevil  rose  on  the  stroke 
of  ten. 

"  You  look  fagged  out,  old  boy.  And  the  sooner  you're  asleep 
—  the  sooner  it  will  be  to-morrow!  A  pet  axiom  of  yours.  D'you 
remember?  " 

Did  he  not  remember? 

They  went  upstairs  together;  the  great  house  seemed  oppres- 
sively empty  and  silent.  On  the  threshold  of  Roy's  room  they 
said  good-night.  There  was  an  instant  of  palpable  awkwardness; 
then  Roy  —  overcoming  it  —  leaned  forward  and  kissed  the 
patch  of  white  hair  on  his  father's  temple. 

"God  bless  you,"  Sir  Nevil  said  rather  huskily.  "You  ought 
to  sleep  sound  in  there.  Don't  dream." 

"But  I  love  to  dream,"  said  Roy.  and  his  father  laughed. 

"You're  not  so  staggeringly  changed  inside!  As  siure  as  a  gun 
you'll  be  late  for  breakfast!" 

And  he  did  dream.  The  moment  his  lids  fell  —  she  was  there 
with  him,  imder  the  beeches,  their  sanctuary:  she  who  all  day 
had  hovered  on  the  confines  of  his  spirit,  like  a  hght,  felt,  not 
seen.    There  were  no  words  between  them,  nor  any  need  of 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  441 

words;  only  the  ineffable  peace  of  understanding,  of  reunion  .  .  , 
Dream  —  or  visitation  —  who  could  say?  To  him  it  seemed 
that  only  afterwards  sleep  came  —  the  dreamless  sleep  of 
renewal . . . 

He  woke  egregiously  early:  such  an  awakening  as  he  had  not 
known  for  months  on  end.  And  out  there  in  the  garden  it  was  a 
miracle  of  a  morning;  divinely  clear,  with  the  mellow  clearness  of 
England;  massed  trees,  brooding  darkly;  the  lawn  silver  grey 
with  dew;  ever)nvhere  blurred  outlines  and  tender  shadows; 
pure  balm  to  eye  and  spirit  after  the  hard  brilliance  and  sharp 
contrasts  of  the  East 

Madness  to  get  up;  yet  impossible  to  lie  there  waiting.  He 
tried  it  for  what  seemed  an  endless  age;  then  succumbed  to  the 
inevitable. 

While  he  was  dressing,  clouds  drifted  across  the  blue.  A  spurt 
of  rain  whipped  his  open  casement;  threatening  him  in  playful 
mood.  But  before  he  had  crept  down  and  let  himself  out  through 
one  of  the  drawing-room  windows,  the  sky  was  clear  again,  with 
the  tremulous  radiance  of  happiness  struck  sharp  on  months  of 
sorrow  and  stress. 

Striding,  hatless,  across  the  drenched  lawn,  and  resisting 
the  pull  of  his  beech  wood,  he  pressed  on  and  up  to  the  open 
moor;  craving  its  sweeps  of  space  and  colour  unbosomed  to  the 
friendly  sky  that  seemed  so  much  nearer  earth  than  the  passion- 
ate blue  vault  of  India  .  .  . 

It  was  five  years  since  he  had  seen  heather  in  bloom  —  or  was 
it  five  decades?  The  sight  of  it  recalled  that  other  July  day, 
when  he  had  tramped  the  length  of  the  ridge  with  his  head  full 
of  dreams  and  the  ache  of  parting  in  his  heart. 

To  him  that  far-off  being  seemed  almost  another  Roy  in  an- 
other life.  Only  —  as  his  father  had  feelingly  reminded  him  — 
the  first  Roy  and  the  last  were  alike  informed  by  the  spirit  of 
one  woman;  visible  then,  invisible  now,  yet  sensibly  present  in 
every  haunt  she  had  made  her  own.  The  house  was  full  of  her; 
the  wood  was  full  of  her.  But  the  pangs  of  reminder  he  had  so 
dreaded,  resolved  themselves,  rather,  into  a  sense  of  indescrib* 


442  FAR  TO  SEEK 

able,  ethereal  reunion.  He  asked  nothing  better  than  that  his 
life  and  work  should  be  fulfilled  with  her  always:  her  and  Tara  — 
if  she  so  decreed  .  .  . 

Thought  of  her  revived  impatience  and  drew  his  steps  home- 
ward again. 

Strolling  back  through  the  wood,  he  came  suddenly  upon  the 
open  space  where  he  had  found  the  Golden  Tusks,  and  lingered 
there  a  little  —  remembering  the  storm  and  the  terror  and  the 
fight;  Tara  and  her  bracelet;  and  the  deep,  unrealised  significance 
of  tht^t  childish  impulse,  inspired  by  her,  whose  was  the  source  of 
all  their  inspirations.  And  now  —  seventeen  years  afterwards 

—  the  bracelet  had  drawn  him  back  to  them  both;  saved  him, 
perhaps,  from  the  unforgivable  sin  of  throwing  up  the  game. 

On  he  walked  along  the  same  mossy  path,  almost  in  a  dream. 
He  had  found  the  Tusks.  His  High-Tower  Princess  was  waiting 

—  his  '  Star  far-seen.'  Again,  as  on  that  day,  he  came  imexpect- 
edly  in  view  of  their  tree:  and  behold  —  wonder  of  wonders  (or 
was  it  the  most  natural  thing  on  earth?)  there  was  Tara,  herself, 
approaching  it  by  another  path  that  linked  the  wood  with  the 
grounds  of  the  black-and-white  house,  which  was  part  of  the 
estate. 

Instantly  he  stepped  back  a  pace  and  stood  still,  that  he  might 
reahse  her  before  she  became  aware  of  him:  her  remembered 
loveHness,  her  new  dearness.  Loveliness  —  that  was  the  quin- 
tessence of  her,  all  through.  With  his  innate  feehng  for  words, 
he  had  never  —  even  accidentally  —  applied  it  to  Rose.  Had 
she,  too,  felt  impatient?  Was  she  coming  over  to  breakfast  for 
a  *  surprise '?  At  this  distance  she  looked  not  a  day  older  than  on 
that  critical  occasion  when  he  had  realised  her  for  the  first  time; 
only  more  fragile  —  a  shade  too  fragile.  It  hurt  him.  He  felt 
responsible.  And  again  to-day  —  very  clever  of  her  —  she  was 
wearing  a  delphinium  blue  frock;  a  shady  hat  that  drooped  half 
over  her  face.  No  pink  rose,  however,  and  he  was  thankful. 
Roses  had  still  a  too  baleful  association.  He  doubted  if  he  could 
ever  tolerate  a  Marechal  Niel  again  —  as  much  on  account  of 
Lance  as  on  account  of  the  other. 

Tara  was  wearing  his  flower  —  sweet  peas,  palest  pink  and 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  443 

lavender.  And,  at  sight  of  her,  every  shred  of  doubt  seemed 
burnt  up  in  the  clear  flame  of  his  love  for  her;  no  heady  con- 
fusion of  heart  and  senses,  but  a  rarefied  intensity  of  both, 
touched  with  a  coal  from  the  altar  of  creative  life.  The  knowledge 
was  like  a  light  hand  reining  in  his  impatience.  Poet,  no  less  than 
lover,  he  wanted  to  go  slowly  through  the  golden  mist  .  .  . 

But  the  moment  he  stirred,  she  heard  him;  saw  him  .  .  . 

No  imperious  gesture  as  before;  but  a  hghtning  gleam  of  recog- 
nition, of  welcome,  and  —  something  more  —  ? 

He  hurried  now  .  .  . 

Next  instant,  they  were  together,  hands  locked,  eyes  deep  in 
eyes.  The  surface  sense  of  strangeness  between  them,  the  under- 
sense  of  intimate  nearness  —  thrilling  as  it  was  —  made  speech 
astonishingly  difficult. 

"Tara,"  he  said,  just  above  his  breath. 

Her  sensitive  lips  parted,  trembled  —  and  closed  again. 

"ram/"  he  repeated,  dizzily  incredulous,  where  a  moment 
earlier  he  had  been  arrogantly  certain.  "Is  it  true  .  .  .  what 
your  eyes  are  telling  me?  Can  you  forgive  .  .  .  my  madness  out 
there?  Half  across  the  world  you  called  to  me;  and  I've  come 
home  to  you,  because  .  .  .  with  every  atom  of  me  ...  I  love 
you;  and  I'm  still  .  .  .  Bracelet-Bound  ..." 

This  time  her  Ups  trembled  into  a  smile.  "And  it's  not  one  of 
the  Prayer-Book  affinitiesl"  she  reminded  him,  a  gleam  of  that 
other  Tara  in  her  eyes. 

"No,  thank  God  —  it's  not!  But  you  haven't  answered  me, 
you  know  ..." 

"Roy,  what  a  story  I  When  you  know  I  really  said  it  first!" 

Her  eyes  were  saying  it  again  now:  and  he,  bereft  of  words, 
mutely  held  out  his  arms. 

If  she  paused  an  instant,  it  was  because  she  felt  even  dizzier 
than  he.  But  the  power  of  his  longing  drew  her  like  a  physical 
force  —  and,  as  his  lips  claimed  hers,  the  terror  of  love  and  its 
truth  caught  her  and  swept  her  from  known  shores  into  un- 
charted seas  .  .  , 

This  was  a  Roy  she  scarcely  knew.  But  her  heart  knew;  every 
pulse  of  her  awakened  womanhood  knew  .  .  . 


444  FAR  TO  SEEK 

Presently  it  became  possible  to  think.  Very  gently  she  pushed 
him  back  a  little. 

"0-oh  —  I  never  knew  .  ,  .  you  were  .  .  .  like  that!  And 
you've  crushed  my  poor  sweet  peas  to  smithereens!  Now  — 
behave!  Let  me  look  at  you  .  .  .  properly,  and  see  what  India's 
done  to  you.  Give  me  a  chance!" 

He  gave  her  a  chance,  still  keeping  hold  of  her  —  to  make  sure 
she  was  real. 

"High-Tower  Princess,  are  we  truly  US?  Or  is  it  a  'bewitch- 
ery'?"  he  asked,  only  half  in  joke.  "Will  you  go  turning  into  a 
butterfly  presently  —  ?  " 

"Promise  I  won't!"  Her  low  laugh  was  not  quite  steady. 
"We're  US  —  truly.  And  we've  got  to  Farthest-End,  where 
your  dreams  come  true.  D'you  remember?  —  I  always  said 
they  couldn't.  They  were  too  crazy.  So  I  don't  deserve  —  " 

"It's  /  that  don't  deserve,"  he  broke  out  with  sudden  passion. 
"And  to  find  you  under  our  very  own  tree!  Have  you  forgotten 

—  that  day?  Of  course  you  went  to  the  'tipmost  top';  and  I 
wouldn't.  It's  queer  —  isn't  it?  —  how  bits  of  life  get  printed  so 
sharply  on  your  brain;  and  great  spaces,  on  either  side,  utterly 
blotted  out.  That  day's  one  of  my  bits  —  Is  it  so  clear  —  to 
you?" 

"To  we  —  ?"  She  could  scarcely  believe  he  did  not  know  .  .  . 
Unashamedly,  she  wanted  him  to  know.  But  part  of  him  was 
strange  to  her  —  thrillingly  strange:  which  made  things  not  quite 
so  simple. 

"Roy,"  she  went  on,  after  a  luminous  pause,  twisting  the  top 
button  of  his  coat,  "I'm  going  to  tell  you  a  secret.  A  big  one. 
For  me  that  Day  was  .  .  .  the  beginning  of  everything.  —  Hush 

—  Hsten!"  —  Her  fingers  just  touched  his  lips.  "I'm  feeling  — 
rather  shy.  And  if  you  don't  keep  quiet,  I  can't  tell.  Of  course 
I  always  .  .  loved  you,  next  to  AtholL  But  after  that  .  .  . 
after  the  fight,  I  simply  .  .  .  adored  you.  And  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
it's  never  left  off  since  ..." 

"Tara!  Aly  loveliest!"  he  cried,  between  ecstasy  and  dismay; 
and  gathering  her  close  again,  he  kissed  her  softly,  repeatedly, 
murmuring  broken  endearments.  *' And  there  was  I  .  .  .  I" 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  '445 

"Yes.  There  were  you  .  .  .  with  your  poems  and  Aunt  Lila 
and  your  dreams  about  India  —  always  with  your  head  among 
the  stars  ..." 

"In  plain  English,  a  spoilt  boy  —  as  you  once  told  me  — 
wrapped  up  in  myself  ..." 

"No,  you  weren't!  I  won't  have  it!"  she  contradicted  in  her 
old,  imperious  way.  "You  were  wrapped  up  in  all  kinds  of 
wonderful  things.  So  you  just  .  .  .  didn't  see  me.  You  looked 
clean  over  my  head.  Of  course  it  often  made  me  imhappy.  But  it 
made  me  love  you  more.  That's  the  way  we  women  are.  It's 
not  the  men  who  run  after  us;  it's  the  other  kind  ...II 
expect  you  looked  clean  over  poor  Anina's  head.  And  if  I  asked 
her,  privately,  she'd  confess  that  was  partly  why  .  .  .  And 
the  other  girl,  if  ...  " 

"  Darling  —  don'tl "  he  pleaded.  "I'm  ashamed,  beyond  words. 
I'll  tell  you  every  atom  of  it  truthfully  .  .  .  my  Tara.  But  this 
is  our  moment.  I  want  more  —  about  you.  —  Sit.  It's  full  early. 
Then  we'll  go  in  (of  course  you're  coming  to  breakfast)  and  give 
Dad  the  surprise  of  his  life  .  .  .  Bother  your  old  hat!  It  gets  in 
the  way.  And  I  want  to  see  your  hair." 

With  a  shyness  new  to  him  —  and  to  Tara,  poignantly  dear  — 
he  drew  out  her  pins;  discarded  the  offending  hat  and  took  her 
head  between  his  hands,  hghtly  caressing  the  thick  coils  that 
shaded  from  true  gold  to  warm,  delicate  tones  of  brown. 

Then  he  set  her  on  the  mossy  seat  near  the  trunk,  and  flung 
hunself  down  before  her  in  the  old  way,  propped  on  his  elbows  — 
rapt,  lost  in  love;  divinely  without  self-consciousness. 

"I'm  not  looking  over  your  head  now,"  he  said,  his  eyes  deep 
in  hers  —  deep  and  deeper,  till  the  wild-rose  flush  invaded  the 
delicate  hollows  of  her  temples;  and  leaning  forward  she  laid  a 
hand  across  those  too  eloquent  eyes. 

"Don't  blind  me  altogether  —  darling.  When  people  have 
been  shut  away  from  the  sun  a  long  time  ..." 

"But,  Tara  —  why  were  you  .  .  .  ?"  He  removed  the  hand 
and  kept  hold  of  it.  "I  begged  you  to  come.  I  wanted  you. 
Why  did  you  .  .  .  ?" 

She  shook  her  head  smiling,  half  wistfully.  "  That's  a  bit  of  ray 


446  FAR  TO  SEEK 

old  Roy!  But  you're  man  enough  to  know  —  now  —without 
telling.  And  I  was  woman  enough  to  know  —  then.  At  least, 
by  instinct,  I  knew  ..." 

"Then  it  wasn't  because.  .  .because — I'm  half  .  .  .  Rajput?" 

"Roy!'*  But  for  all  her  surprise  and  reproach,  intuition  told 
him  the  idea  was  not  altogether  new  to  her.  "What  made  you 
think  — oithatf" 

"Well  —  because  it  partly  .  .  .  broke  things  off  —  out  there. 
That  startled  me.  And  when  Dad's  miracle  of  a  picture  woke  me 
up  with  a  vengeance  ...  it  terrified  me.  I  began  wondering  .  . 
Beloved,    are    you    quite    sure    about   Aunt    Helen  ...  Sir 
James  .  .  .  ?" 

She  paused  —  a  mere  breathing  space;  her  free  hand  caressed 
his  hair.  (This  time,  he  did  not  shift  his  head.) 

"I'm  feeling  simply  beyond  myself  with  happiness  and  pride. 
I'm  utterly  sure  about  Mother.  You  see  .  .  .  she  knows  .  .  . 
we've  talked  about  it.  We're  Uke  sisters,  almost.  As  for  Father 
.  .  .  well,  we're  less  intimate.  I  did  fancy  he  seemed  the  wee-est 
bit  relieved  when  .  .  .  your  news  came  ..."  The  pain  in  his 
eyes  checked  her.  "My  blessed  one,  I  won't  have  you  daring  to 
worry  about  it.  I'm  lifted  to  the  tipmost  top  of  things  with 
happiness  and  pride.  Mother  will  be  overjoyed.  She  realises 
...  a  little  .  .  .  what  I've  been  through.  Of  course  —  in  our 
talks  she  has  told  me  frankly  what  tragedies  often  come  from 
mixing  such  'mighty  opposites.'  But  she  said  all  of  you  were 
quite  exceptional.  And  she  knows  about  such  things.  And  she's 
the  point.  She  can  always  square  Father  if  —  there's  any  need. 
So  just  be  quiet  —  inside!" 

"But  —  tiat  day,"  he  persisted,  Roy-like,  "you  didn't  think 
ofit  — ?" 

"Faithfully,  I  didn't.  I  felt  only  your  heart  was  too  full  up 
with  Aunt  Lila  and  India  to  have  room  enough  for  me.  And  I 
wanted  all  the  room  —  or  nothing.  Vaguely,  f  Rnew  it  was  her 
dream.  But  my  wicked  pride  insisted  it  should  be  yotir  dream. 
It  wasn't  till  long  after  that  Mother  told  me  how  —  from  the 
very  first  —  Aunt  Lila  had  planned  and  prayed,  because  she 
knew  marriage  might  be  your  one  big  difficulty;  and  she  could 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  447 

speak  of  it  only  to  Mummy.  It  was  their  great  link;  the  idea 
behind  everything  —  the  lessons  and  all.  So,  you  see,  all  the 
time,  she  was  sort  of  creating  me  .  .  .  for  you.  And  the  bitter 
disappointment  it  must  have  been  to  her!  If  I'd  had  a  glimmer- 
ing .  .  .  of  all  that,  I  don't  beUeve  I  could  have  held  out  against 
you  —  " 

"Then  I  wish  to  Heaven  you'd  had  a  glimmering  —  because 
of  her  and  because  of  us.  Look  at  all  the  good  years  we've 
wasted  —  " 

"We've  not  —  we've  not!"  she  protested  vehemently.  "If 
it  had  happened  then,  it  wouldn't  have  come  within  miles  —  of 
this.  You  simply  hadn't  it  in  you,  Roy,  to  give  me  ...  all  I 
can  feel  you  giving  me  now.  As  for  me  —  well,  that's  for  you  to 
find  out!  Of  covu-se,  the  minute  I'd  done  it,  I  was  miserable: 
furious  with  myself.  For  I  couldn't  stop .  .  .  loving  you.  My 
heart  had  no  shame,  in  spite  of  my  important  pride.  Only  .  ,  . 
after  she  went  —  and  Mother  told  me  all  —  something  in  me 
seemed  to  know  her  free  spirit  would  be  near  you  and  bring  you 
back  to  me  .  .  .  somehow:  till  —  your  news  came.  And  —  look! 
The  Bracelet!  I  hesitated  a  long  time.  If  you  hadn't  been  en- 
gaged, I'm  not  sure  if  I  would  have  ventured.  But  I  did  —  and 
you're  here.  It's  all  been  her  doing,  Roy,  first  and  last.  Don't 
let's  spoil  any  of  it  with  regrets." 

He  covild  only  bow  his  head  upon  her  hand  in  mute  adoration. 
The  courage,  the  crystal-clear  wisdom  of  her  —  his  eager  Tara, 
who  could  never  wait  five  minutes  for  the  particular  sweet  or  the 
particular  tale  she  craved.  Yet  she  had  waited  five  years  for 
him  —  and  counted  it  a  little  thing.  Of  a  truth  his  mother  had 
builded  better  than  she  knew. 

"You  see,"  Tara  added  softly,  "there  wouldn't  have  been 
...  the  deeps  —  And  it  takes  the  deeps  to  make  you  realise 
the  heights." 

Lost  in  one  another  —  in  the  wonder  of  mutual  self-reveah'nj 
—  they  were  lost,  no  less,  to  impertinent  trivialities  of  place  and 
time;  till  the  trivial  pang  of  hunger  reminded  Roy  that  he  had 
been  wandering  for  hours  without  food. 


448  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Tara  —  it's  a  come-down  —  but  I'm  fairly  starving!"  he 
cried  suddenly  —  and  consulted  his  watch.  "Nine  o'clock!  — 
the  wretch  I  am!  Dad's  final  remark  was,  'Sure  as  a  gun,  you'll 
)e  late  for  breakfast.'  And  it  seemed  impossible.  But  sure  as 
;uns  we  mil  be!  Put  on  the  precious  hat.  We  must  jolly  well 
un  for  it." 
And  taking  hands,  like  a  pair  of  children,  they  ran  .  .  , 


Chapter  the  Last 

Who  shall  aUot  the  praise,  and  guess 
What  part  is  yours  —  and  what  is  ours? 

Alice  Meynell 

Perhaps  a  dreamer's  day  will  come  .  .  .  when 
judgment  wiU  be  passed  on  all  the  wise  men,  who 
always  prophesied  evil  —  and  were  always  right. 

JOHAN  BOJER 

Two  hours  later  Roy  and  his  father  sat  together  in  the  cushioned 
window-seat  of  the  studio,  smoking  industriously;  not  troubling 
to  say  much  —  though  there  was  much  to  be  said  —  because  the 
mist  of  constraint  that  brooded  between  them  yesterday  had 
been  blown  clean  away  by  Roy's  wonderful  news. 

If  it  had  not  given  Sir  Nevil  *  the  surprise  of  his  life,'  it  had 
given  him  the  deepest,  most  abiding  gratification  he  had  known 
since  his  inner  light  had  gone  out  with  the  passing  of  her  who  had 
been  his  inspiration  and  his  all.  Dear  though  his  children  were 
to  him,  they  had  remained  secondary,  always.  Roy  came  near- 
est, as  his  heir,  and  as  the  one  in  whom  her  spirit  most  clearly 
lived  again.  Since  she  went,  he  had  longed  for  the  ,boy;  but  re- 
membering her  plea  on  that  summer  day , of  decision  —  her  moun- 
tain-top of  philosophy,  'to  take  by  leaving,^ to  hold  by  letting  go* 
—  he  had  studiously  refrained  from  pressing  his  return.  Now, 
at  a  word  from  Tara,  he  had  sped  home  jn  the  hot  season;  and  — 
hard  on  the  heels  of  a  mysteriously  broken  engagement  —  had 
claimed  her  at  sight. 

Yesterday  their  sense  of  strangeness  had  made  silence  feel 
imcomfortable,  lest  it  seem  imfriendly.  Now  that  they  had 
slipped  back  into  the  old  intimacy,  it  ifelt  companionable.  Yet 
neiUier  was  thinking  directly  of  the  other.  Each  was  thinking 
of  the  woman  he  loved. 

By  chance  their  eyes  encountered  in  a  friendly  smile;  —  and 
Roy  spoke. 


450  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Daddums  —  you've  come  alive!  I  believe  you're  dmost  as 
happy  over  it  —  as  I  am?  " 

"You're  not  far  out.  You  see"  —  his  eyes  grew  graver  — 
"I'm  feeling  .  .  .  Mother's  share,  too.  Did  you  ever  realise  .  .  .  ? 

"Partly.  Not  all  —  till  just  now.  Tara  told  me." 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Sir  Nevil  looked  full  at  his  son. 

"Roy  —  I've  got  something  to  tell  you  —  to  show  you  .  .  . 
if  you  can  detach  your  mind  for  an  hour  —  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course.     What  is  it  —  where? " 

He  looked  round  the  room.  Instinctively,  he  knew  it  concerned 
his  mother. 

"Not  here.  Upstairs  —  in  her  House  of  Gods."  He  saw  Roy 
flinch.  "If  I  can  bear  it,  old  boy,  you  can.  And  there's  a  reason 

—  you'll  understand." 

The  httle  room  above  the  studio  had  been  sacred  to  Lilamani 
ever  since  her  homecoming  as  a  bride  of  eighteen;  sacred  to  her 
prayers  and  meditations  to  the  sandalwood  casket  that  held  her 
'private  god';  for  the  Indian  wife  has  always  one  god  chosen  for 
special  worship  —  not  to  be  named  to  anyone,  even  her  husband. 
And  although  a  Christian  Lilamani  had  discontinued  that  form 
of  devotion,  the  tiny  blue  image  of  the  Baby-God,  Krishna,  had 
been  a  sacred  treasure  always;  shown,  on  rare  occasions  only,  to 
Roy.  To  enter  that  room  was  to  enter  her  soul.  And  Roy, 
shrinking  apart,  felt  himself  unworthy  —  because  of  Rose. 

On  the  threshold  there  met  him  the  faint  scent  that  pervaded 
her.  For!  there,  in  an  alcove,  stood  Krishna's  sandalwood  casket. 
In  larger  boxes,  Uned  with  sandalwood,  her  many-tinted  silks 
and  saris  lay  lovingly  folded.  Another  casket  held  her  jewels: 
and  arranged  on  a  row  of  shelves  stood  her  dainty  array  of  shoes 

—  gold  and  silver  and  pale  brocades:  an  intimate  touch  that 
pierced  his  heart.  Near  the  Krishna  alcove  hung  a  portrait  he 
had  not  seen:  a  thing  of  fragile,  almost  unearthly  beauty,  painted 
when  her  husband  came  home  —  discarded,  and  realised  .  .  . 

An  aching  lump  in  Roy's  throat  cut  like  a  knife;  but  his 
father's  remark  put  him  on  his  mettle.  And,  the  next  instant, 
he  saw  .  .  . 

"Dad!"  he  breathed,  in  awed  amazement. 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  451 

For  there,  on  the  small  round  table,  stood  a  model  in  dull  red 
clay:  immistakeably,  unbelievably  —  the  rock  fortress  of  Chi  tor: 
the  walls  scarped  and  bastioned;  Elhumba  Rana's  tower;  and 
the  city  itself  —  no  ruin,  but  a  miniature  presentment  of  Chitor, 
as  she  might  have  been  in  her  day  of  ancient  glory,  as  Roy  had 
been  dimly  aware  of  her  in  the  course  of  his  own  amazing  ride. 
Temples,  palaces,  huddled  houses  —  not  detailed,  but  skilfully 
suggested  —  stirred  the  old  thrill  in  his  veins,  the  old  certainty 
that  he  knew  .  .  . 

"Well  —  ?"  asked  Sir  Nevil,  whose  eyes  had  not  left  his  face. 

''Wdll"  echoed  Roy,  emerging  from  his  trance  of  wonder. 
"I'm  dumbfounded.  A  few  mistakes,  here  and  there:  but  —  as  a 
whole  .  .  .  Dad  —  how  in  the  world  .  .  .  could  you  know?  " 

"I  don't  know.  I  hoped  you  would.  I .  .  .  saw  it  clearly, 
just  like  that  —  " 

"How?  In  a  dream?" 

"I  suppose  so.  I  couldn't  swear,  in  a  court  of  law,  that  I  was 
awake.  It  happened  —  one  evening,  as  I  lay  there,  on  her  couch 
—  remembering  .  .  .  going  back  over  things.  And  suddenly, 
out  of  the  darkness,  blossomed  —  that.  Asleep  or  awake,  my 
mind  was  alert  enough  to  seize  and  hold  the  impression,  without 
a  glimmer  of  surprise  .  .  .  till  I  came  to,  or  woke  up  —  which 
you  will.  Then  my  normal,  sceptical  self  didn't  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  I've  always  dismissed  that  sort  of  thing  as  mere 
brain-trickery.  But  —  a  vivid,  personal  experience  makes  it  .  .  . 
not  so  easy.  Of  course,  from  reading  and  a  few  old  photographs, 
I  knew  it  was  Chitor:  and  my  first  concern  was  to  record  the 
vision  in  its  first  freshness.  For  three  days  I  worked  at  it: 
only  emerging  now  and  then  to  snatch  a  meal.  I  began  with 
those  and  that  —  " 

He  indicated  a  set  of  rough  sketches  and  an  impression  in 
oils;  a  ghost  of  a  city,  full  of  suggested  beauty  and  mystery. 
"No  joke,  trying  to  model  with  one  hand;  but  you  wouldn't 
believe  .  .  .  the  swiftness  .  .  .  thesureness  .  .  .  as  if  my  fingers 
knew  ..." 

Roy  could  believe.  Occasionally  his  own  fmgers  behaved  so. 

"When  it  was  done,  I  put  it  in  here,"  his  father  went  on, 


452  FAR  TO  SEEK 

masking,  with  studied  quietness,  his  elation  at  the  effect  on  Roy. 
"I've  shown  it  to  no  one  — not  even  Aunt  Helen.  I  couldn't 
write  of  it.  I  felt  it  would  sound  crazy  —  " 

"Not  to  me,"  said  Roy. 

"Well,  I  couldn't  tell  that.  And  I've  been  waiting  —  for  you.** 

"  Since  —  when?  " 

"  Since  the  third  of  March,  this  year." 

Roy  drew  an  audible  breath.  It  was  the  anniversary  of  her 
passing. 

"All  that  timet  How  could  you  —  ?  Why  didn't  you  —  ?" 

"Well  —  you  know.  You  were  obviously  submerged  —  your 
novel,  Udaipur,  Lance  .  .  .  You  wouldn't  have  foregone  all 
that  ...  if  I  know  you,  for  a  mere  father.  But  you're  here,  at 
last,  thank  God.  And  —  I  want  to  know.  You've  seen  Chitor 
as  it  is  to-day  ..." 

"I've  seen  more  than  that,"  said  Roy.  "I  can  tell  you,  now. 
I  couldn't  —  before.  Let's  sit." 

And  sitting  there,  on  her  couch,  in  her  House  of  Gods,  he  told 
the  story  of  his  moonlit  ride  and  its  culmination;  told  it  in  low 
tones,  in  swift,  vivid  phrases  that  came  of  themselves  .  .  . 

Throughout  the  teUing  —  and  for  many  minutes  afterwards  — 
his  father  sat  motionless;  his  head  on  his  hand,  half  shielding 
his  face  from  view  .  .  . 

"I've  spoken  of  it  only  to  Grandfather,"  Roy  said  at  last. 
"And  with  all  my  heart  I  wish  he  could  see  .  .  .  that." 

Sir  Nevil  looked  up  now;  and  the  subdued  exaltation  in  his 
eyes  was  wholly  new  to  Roy. 

"I've  gone  a  good  way  beyond  wishing,"  he  said.  "But  again 

—  I  was  waiting  for  you.  I  want  to  go  out  there,  Roy,  with  you 
two,  when  you're  married  —  and  see  it  all  for  myself.  With  care, 
one  could  take  the  thing  along,  to  verify  and  improve  it  on  the 
spot.  Then  —  what  do  you  say?  —  You  and  I  might  achieve 
a  larger  reproduction  —  for  Grandfather:  a  gift  to  Rajputana 

—  my  source]  of  inspiration;  a  tribute  ...  to  her  memory  who 
still  lights  our  lives  .  .  .  with  the  inextinguishable  lamp  of  her 
spirit  ..." 

The  last  words  —  almost  inaudible  —  were  a  revelation  to 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  453 

Roy;  an  illumining  glimpse  of  the  inner  self  that  a  man  hides 
very  carefully  from  his  fellows;  and  shows  —  at  supreme  mo- 
ments only  —  to  *a  woman  when  he  loves  her.' 

Shy  of  their  mutual  emotion  he  laid  a  hand  on  his  father's 
arm. 

"You  can  coimt  on  me,  Dad,"  he  said  in  the  same  low  tone. 
"Who  knows?  —  one  day  it  might  inspire  the  Rajputs  to  rebuild 
their  Queen  of  Cities,  in  white  marble,  that  she  may  rise  again, 
immortal  through  the  ages  ..." 

When  they  stood  up  to  leave  the  shrine,  their  eyes  met  in  a 
steadfast  look;  and  there  was  the  same  thought  behind  it.  She 
had  given  them  to  each  other  in  a  new  way,  in  a  fashion  all  her 
own. 

For  that  brief  space  Roy  had  almost  forgotten  Tara.  Now  the 
wonder  of  her  flashed  back  on  him  like  a  dazzle  of  sunlight  after 
the  dim  sanctity  of  cathedral  aisles. 

And  down  in  the  studio  it  was  possible  to  discuss  practical 
issues  of  his  father's  inspiration  —  or  rather  his  mother's;  for 
they  both  felt  it  as  such. 

Roy  would  marry  Tara  in  September;  and  in  November  they 
three  would  go  out  together.  There  were  bad  days  coming  out 
there;  but,  as  Roy  had  once  said,  every  man  and  woman  of 
good-will  —  British  or  Indian  —  would  count  in  the  scale,  were 
it  only  a  grain  here,  a  grain  there.  The  insignificance  of  the 
human  imit  —  a  mere  fragment  of  star-dust  on  sidereal  shores  — 
is  offset  by  the  incalculable  significance  of  the  individual  in  the 
history  of  man's  efforts  to  be  more  than  man.  In  that  faith  these 
two  could  not  be  found  wanting;  debtors  as  they  were  to  the 
genius,  devotion,  and  high  coiu-age  of  one  fragile  woman,  who 
had  lived  little  more  than  half  her  allotted  span. 

They,  at  least,  would  not  give  up  hope  of  the  lasting  imity  vital 
to  both  races,  because  political  errors  and  poisonous  influences 
and  tragic  events  had  roused  a  mutual  spurit  of  bitterness  diflS- 
cult  to  quell  .  .  . 

Conceivably,  it  mi^ht  touch  the  imagination  of  their  India  — 
Rajputana  (Roy  was  chary,  now,  of  the  all-embracing  word) 


454  FAR  TO  SEEK 

—  that  an  Englishman  should  so  love  an  Indian  woman  as  to 
immortalise  her  memory  in  a  form  peculiar  to  the  East.  For  a 
Christian  Lilamani,  neither  temple  nor  tomb,  but  the  vision  of  a 
waste  city  rebuilded  —  the  city  whose  name  was  written  on  her 
heart.  In  their  uplifted  moment,  it  seemed  not  quite  unthinkable. 

"And  it's  India's  imagination  we  have  most  of  us  signally 
failed  to  touch  —  if  not  done  a  good  deal  to  quench,"  said  Roy, 
his  eyes  brooding  on  a  bank  of  purple-grey  cloud,  his  own  imagi- 
nation astir  .  .  . 

It  was  his  turn  now  to  catch  a  flitting  inspiration  on  the 
wing. 

Would  it  be  utterly  impossible  —  ?  Could  they  spend  a  wan- 
der-year in  Rajputana  —  the  cities,  the  desert,  the  Aravallis: 
his  father  painting,  he  writing?  The  result  —  a  combined  book, 
dedicated  to  her  memory;  an  attempt  to  achieve  something  in 
the  nature  of  interpretation  —  his  arrogant  dream  of  Oxford 
days;  a  vindication  of  his  young  faith  in  the  arts  as  the  true 
medium  of  mutual  understanding?  In  any  case,  it  would  be  a 
tmique  achievement.  And  they  would  feel  they  had  contributed 
their  mite  of  good- will,  had  followed  'the  gleam'  .  .  . 

"Besides  —  out  there  other  chances  might  crop  up.  Thea, 
Grandfather,  Dyan  .  .  .  And  Tara  would  be  in  it  all,  heart  and 
soul,"  he  concluded  —  remembering,  with  a  twinge,  a  certain 
talk  with  Rose.  "And  it  would  do  you  all  the  good  on  earth  — 
which  isn't  the  least  of  its  virtues,  in  my  eyes!" 

The  look  on  his  father's  face  was  reward  enough  —  for  the 
moment. 

"Well  done,  Roy,"  said  Sir  Nevil  very  quietly.  "That  year  in 
Rajputana  shall  be  my  wedding  present  —  to  you  two  —  " 

Later  on,  the  'inspired  plan'  was  expounded  to  Tara  —  with 
amplifications.  She  had  merely  rim  home  —  escorted,  of  course, 
through  the  perils  of  the  wood  —  to  impart  her  great  news  and 
bring  her  mother  back  to  limch,  which  Roy  persistently  called 
'tijSin.'  Food  disposed  of,  they  stepped  straight  out  of  the  house 
into  a  world  of  their  own  —  the  world  of  their '  Game-without-an- 
End';  the  rose  garden,  the  wood,  the  regal  splendours  of  the  moor, 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  455 

gleammg  and  glooming  under  shadows  of  drifting  cloud:  on  and 
on,  in  a  golden  haze  of  content,  talking,  endlessly  talking  .  .  . 

The  reserve  and  infrequency  of  their  letters  had  left  whole 
tracts,  outer  and  inner,  unexplored.  Here,  thought  Roy  —  in  his 
mother's  beautiful  phrase  —  was '  the  comrade  of  body  arid  spirit* 
that  his  subconsciousness  had  been  seeking  all  along;  while  he 
looked  over  the  heads  of  one  and  another,  lured  by  the  far,  yet 
emotionally  susceptible  to  the  near.  Once  —  unbidden  —  the 
thought  intruded:  "How  different!  How  unutterably  different!" 
Reading  aloud  to  Tara  would  seem  pure  waste  of  her;  except 
when  it  came  to  the  novel,  of  which  he  had  told  her  next  to  noth- 
ing, so  far  .  .  . 

And  Tara  carried  her  happiness  proudly,  like  a  banner.  The 
deliciousness  of  being  loved;  the  intoxication  of  it,  after  the  last 
spark  of  hope  had  been  quenched  by  that  excruciating  engage- 
ment! Her  volcanic  heart  held  a  capacity  for  happiness  as  tre- 
mendous as  her  capacity  for  daring  and  suffering.  But  the  first 
had  so  long  eluded  her  that  now  she  dared  scarcely  let  herself 
go.  She  listened,  half  incredulous,  wholly  entranced,  while  Roy 
drew  rapid  word  pictures  of  the  cities  they  would  see  together  — 
Udaipur,  Chitor,  Ajmir;  and,  not  least,  Koraulmir,  the  hill 
fortress  crowned  with  the  'cloud-palace*  of  Prithvi  Raj  and  that 
distant  Tara,  her  namesake.  Together,  they  would  seek  out  the 
little  shrine  —  Roy  knew  all  about  it  —  near  the  Temple  of  the 
Mother  of  the  Gods,  that  held  the  mmgled  ashes  of  those  great 
lovers  who  were  pleasant  in  their  lives  and  in  death  were  not 
divided  .  .  . 

It  was  much  later  on,  in  the  evening,  when  they  sat  alone  near 
the  twin  beeches,  imder  a  new-Ughted  moon,  that  Roy  at  last 
managed  to  speak  of  Rose.  In  the  dimness  it  was  easiej-,  though 
difficult  at  best.  But  all  day  he  had  been  aware  of  Tara  longing 
to  hear;  unable  to  ask;  too  sensitive  on  his  account,  too  proud  on 
her  own. 

Sir  James  and  Lady  Despard  were  dining,  to  honour  the  event: 
and  if  Sir  James  had  needed  'squaring,'  no  one  heard  of  it. 
Jeffers  had  arrived,  large  and  genial;  —  his  thatch  of  hair  thinned 


456  FAR  TO  SEEK 

a  little  and  white  as  driven  snow.  Healths  had  been  drunk.  It 
was  long  since  the  Beeches  had  known  so  hilarious  a  meal. 
Yet  the  graceless  pair  had  made  haste  to  escape  and  blessed 
Lady  Despard  for  remaining  with  the  men. 

Tara  was  leaning  back  in  a  low  chair;  Roy  on  a  floor  cushion 
very  close;  a  hand  sHpped  behind  her,  his  cheek  against  her  arm; 
yet,  in  a  deeper  sense,  she  wanted  him  closer  stUl.  Surely  he 
knew  .  .  . 

He  did  know. 

"  Tara  —  my  loveliest  —  shall  I  tell  you?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 
"Are  you  badly  wanting  to  hear?" 

"Craving  to,"  she  confessed.  "It's  like  a  bit  of  blank  space 
inside  me.  And  I  don't  want  blank  spaces  —  about  you.  It's 
the  house  swept  and  garnished  that  attracts  the  seven  devils. 
And  one  of  my  devils  is  jealousy!  I've  hated  her  so,  poor  thing. 
I  can't  hate  her  more,  whatever  you  teU  —  " 

"Try  hating  her  less,"  suggested  Roy.^ 

"Try  and  make  me!"  she  challenged  him.  "Are you  —  half 
afraid?  Were  you  ,  .  .  fearfully  smitten? " 

"Wonderful  Tara!  'Smitten' is  the  very  word."  He  looked  up 
at  her  moonHt  face,  its  appealing  charm,  its  mingling  of  dehcacy 
and  strength.  "I  would  never  dream  of  saying  I  was '  smitten'  — 
with  you." 

For  reward,  her  lips  caressed  his  hair.  "What  a  Roy  you  are 
—  with  your  words!  Tell  me  —  tell  from  the  beginning." 

And  from  the  beginning,  he  told  her:  first  in  broken,  spasmodic 
sentences,  with  breaks  and  jars;  then  more  fluently,  more  im- 
reservedly,  as  he  felt  her  leaning  closer  —  more  and  more 
understanding;  more  and  more  forgiving,  where  understanding 
faltered,  where  gaps  came  —  on  account  of  Lance,  and  of  pain 
that  went  too  deep  for  words.  She  had  endured  her  share  of  that. 
She  knew  .  .  . 

When  all  had  been  said,  it  was  she  who  could  not  speak;  and 
iie  gathered  her  to  him,  kissing  with  a  passion  of  tenderness  her 
wet  lashes,  her  trembling  lips  — 

At  last:  "Beloved — has  the  blank  space  gone?"  he  asked. 
"Are  you  content  now?" 


A  STAR  IN  DARKNESS  457 

"Content!  I'm  lifted  to  the  skies." 

"To  the  tipmost  top  of  them?"  he  queried  in  her  ear:  and 
mutely  she  clung  to  him,  returning  his  kisses,  with  the  confidence 
of  a  child,  with  the  intensity  of  a  woman  .  .  . 

AU  too  soon  it  was  over  —  their  'one  mere  day*:  the  walk 
back  through  the  wood  —  never  more  enchanted  than  on  a 
night  of  full  moon:  Tara,  dropped  from  the  skies,  lost  to  every- 
thing but  the  sound  of  Roy's  voice  in  the  darkness,  deep  and  soft, 
like  the  voice  of  her  own  heart  in  a  dream.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  there  would  be  to-morrow  —  and  to-morrow  —  and  to- 
morrow, world  without  end  .  .  . 

Back  in  the  garden  —  Jeffers,  a  miracle  of  tact,  wandered 
away  to  commune  with  a  budding  idea,  leaving  father  and  son 
alone  together. 

Sir  Nevil  offered  Roy  a  cigarette,  and  they  sat  down  in  two 
of  the  six  empty  chairs  near  the  beeches  and  smoked  steadily 
without  exchanging  a  remark. 

But  this  time  they  were  thinking  of  one  woman.  For  at  part- 
ing Tara  had  said  again,  "It's  all  been  her  doing  —  first  and 
last."  And  Roy — with  every  faculty  sensitised  to  catch  ethereal 
vibrations  above  and  below  the  human  octave  —  divined  that 
identical  thought  in  his  father's  silence.  Her  doing  indeed! 
None  of  them  —  not  even  his  father  —  knew  it  better  than 
himself. 

And  now,  while  he  sat  there,  utterly  still  in  the  midst  of  still- 
ness —  no  stir  in  the  tree-tops,  no  movement  anywhere  but  the 
restless  glow  of  Broome's  cigar  —  the  inexpressible  sense  of  her 
stole  in  upon  him,  flooding  his  spirit  like  a  distillation  from  the 
summer  night.  Moment  by  moment  the  impression  deepened 
and  glowed  within  him.  Never,  since  that  morning  at  Chitor, 
had  it  so  uplifted  and  fulfilled  him  .  .  . 

Surely,  now,  his  father  could  feel  it,  too?  Deliberately  he  set 
himself  to  transmit,  if  might  be,  the  thrill  of  her  nearness  —  the 
intimacy,  the  intensity  of  it  .  .  . 

Then,  craving  certainty,  he  put  out  a  hand  and  touched  his  ^ 
lather's  knee. 


458  FAR  TO  SEEK 

"Dad"  —  the  word  was  a  mere  breath  —  "can  you  fed  .  .  .  ? 
She  is  here." 

His  father's  hand  closed  sharply  on  his  own. 

For  one  measureless  moment  they  sat  so.  Then  the  sense  of 
her  presence  faded  as  a  light  dies  out.  The  garden  was  empty. 
Tlie  restless  red  planet  was  moving  towards  them. 

On  a  mutual  impulse  they  rose.  Once  again,  as  in  her  shrine, 
they  exchanged  a  steadfast  look.  And  Roy  had  his  answer. 

He  slipped  a  possessive  hand  through  his  father's  arm;  and 
without  a  word,  they  walked  back  into  the  house. .  .  . 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSBTTS 
U   .   S   .  A 


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